Undefeated
by Fawx
Summary: "You fight all comers, carving a path through the chaos to shape the world around you." Her voice lowered, so only they could hear what she whispered next. "Death will have to take you sleeping, lest it expect a battle." Roll with the punches, kid. Cold comfort is all you're going to get.
1. Prologue Part 1

Prologue Part One: Packing For Armageddon

* * *

 _ _You'll have to hear the whole story.__

* * *

Not long before dawn, Lothering slept to the sound of sirens. It was an expected noise, a distant wail coming from Ostagar, rising and falling in time with the pulsing light of warfare that glowed on the Southern horizon. Even a hundred miles away, the sound was just barely audible enough to fill the cool night air with a ceaseless, uneasy mourning drone. As long as the sirens closer to home did not sound, however, the remaining citizens of Lothering slept more or less easily.

There had been assurances for days from the clean-cut news announcers with their clipped, deliberate, practical voices that the distant sirens were merely a precautionary warning. There was no reason to panic. An evacuation would not be necessary. Tune to any news station, any radio feed, and the King's voice rang out with golden assurance that the forces currently stationed at Ostagar would quite definitively nuke the Darkspawn presence off the face of the planet. Without, of course - the King's recorded voice would let out an indulgent chuckle - the use of an actual nuclear weapon. The worst case scenario depended on reinforcements, not weapons of mass destruction. Lothering would be safe, and in the morning the displaced citizens that had been evacuated from the neighborhoods outside the ruins would be returned to their homes, with little more than lost sleep as the cost.

Most news channels were happy to run the footage of His Majesty waving genially as he donned his fatigues and armor. Even in this day and age Cailan was of a singular mind to honor tradition: Like the Kings of Old, he too would face the Darkspawn on the battlefield, alongside his men. If this was considered suicidally insane by any newscasters covering the story, they kept that opinion under lock. Meanwhile independent news blogs posted long, scathing rants about the King's flippant attitude towards what was easily one of the biggest disasters in contemporary history. There had been long centuries since the last Blight; it hadn't quite been lost to memory, but the sudden sting of having the band-aid removed to reveal the pulsing sore still very much alive under the surface had every media outlet on Thedas twitching with the anticipation of blood-soaked job security.

It would be another hour before the news feed would cut to the choppy aerial video from one last, brave news chopper that had fled from the slaughter, only to crash among the few surviving soldiers fleeing the field. The flickering video would skip and glitch between scenes of battle and the sudden vertigo spin of freefall. The audio would not make it to the air - someone prudently decided that the cameraman's screams - __The King is dead! Oh, Fuck, oh Maker, he's fucking dead!__! were not, at the moment, considered good television.

Jets streaked overhead, heading South in v-shaped formations, rattling windows as they flew across the dim greenish darkness above Lothering to the orange pallor of Ostagar. They passed over the small clutch of downtown skyscrapers, the long stretch of the freeway, sleeping neighborhoods of Lothering's suburban outskirts, dark streets and silent houses - most empty, as the occupants had thought it better to get out of town while the getting was good, some still filled with sleeping families now used to the distant, constant wail of the emergency sirens.

They passed over a young woman who liked people to call her Hawke, vigilant on the front porch of her parent's house, smoking a black-paper clove cigarette as she watched the jets leave vague vapor trails in their wake. She sat quiet as a Golem on the steps, guarding the front door as her mother and sister slept within.

A hundred miles away, her brother and a cousin she'd only met once were somewhere among the heaving crush of soldiers standing ready to face the Darkspawn oozing up from the Deep Roads. Here, she had arrived home only hours before, stepping over the threshold for the first time since not long after her brother had decided to go off to war. As soon as news had come that Lothering was in the path of the projected chaos, she had returned, hitching rides home from the few cars willing to head towards the warzone. It had been long days of exhausting travel, by foot and by car. The welcome had been warm, but dulled by the absence of her brother, and the looming worry of what might be.

 _ _What will be__ , was the thought that plagued Hawke. As much as she hated the cold assurance there was no denying that her gut had never steered her wrong; especially when prophesying certain doom. __What will be. No matter what the news said. How long do we have to run?__

Long enough, she hoped. With the haze of fatigue threatening to cut her vigil short, she hoped to every God she could remember the name of that they would have long enough. Enough time to wake her sister and her mother, enough time to run.

Her mother had retired early and Bethany had eventually passed out on the couch, but Hawke kept awake. Exhaustion and anxiety had mixed their curious alchemy sometime around dinner, providing a second wind that had carried her long past midnight and into the small hours of the morning. One day, she'd look back on those few extra hours with bitter gratitude.

She'd cleaned. First the dishes from dinner, then the rest of the kitchen. The dining room, the living room, bathroom, everything had gotten a once-over. Not that the house needed to be cleaned, between Bethany and Mother the place hardly ever saw a mess, but she'd needed something, _ _anything__ to focus on that wasn't the shuddering feeling she got whenever she turned her back to the South. But there was only so much she could clean, and around the fourth time she'd hauled out the vacuum to tackle an imaginary spot on the carpet, Bethany had gently taken her aside and simply… held her. For just a few minutes, saying nothing.

It had been enough to get her to abandon the vacuum, at least. But as soon as Bethany had left her alone long enough to think, that ice-in-the-intestines feeling had returned and she knew that there would be blood in the streets soon, one way or the other, and that come what may there was not a snowball's chance in Andraste's scorching boudoir that she was going to let any of that blood be her family's. At least, the family she could defend; Carver and that cousin - Lukas? - were far from reach now, and whatever the news said, she knew that there was an even slimmer chance of either of those two getting out of that shithole alive than anything else. The thought sank its claws into the back of her throat and _ _squeezed__.

So, with no cleaning to do, she began to pack.

Little things, first. She'd gone to her and Bethany's room, quietly yanking out drawers, arranging the bare necessities into small piles for each of them on the bed. Underwear, socks, functional bras. Two changes of clothes each. Sleeping bags, just in case. Hand sanitizer, tampons, minor medications, hair brushes, utility knives, rubber bands, twine, scissors, lighters. Hawke dug the spare packet of cigarettes she'd stuffed under her mattress - Bethany hated that she smoked, and would hate it more when she found out Hawke hadn't quit like she'd promised - and put it in with her little pile. With the cigarettes had been a wad of cash; that she split evenly between the piles as well. There were no electronics; the Hawke family had learned long ago that the key to their safety was to live as far off the grid as possible. None of them owned a cellular device, and the one computer the family shared had rarely ever been used.

In the closet the sisters had shared were the heavy-duty hiking backpacks that had seen much use - for good or ill - during their childhood. She checked the first aid kits were stocked with all the basics - bandages, antiseptic, sutures and stitching material, chocolate, painkillers, three vials of a restorative potion and one ampule each of a potent Lyrium potion. One each wouldn't cut it if they had to make a break from Darkspawn, however. She repacked the first aid kits and the rest of what she'd divided, then set the backpacks by the door.

That task completed, Hawke had crept across the hall to her parents' bedroom. Her mother was asleep in the gentle arms of Prince Valium, fallen on the bed in a diagonal stretch, one arm over her eyes, the other clutching a sweater that had belonged to her late husband. Leandra's quiet, drug-induced snore was the only sound in the room.

Hawke gently repositioned her and tucked her under the covers. She couldn't bring herself to remove the sweater, instead resting a hand on it only briefly before she twitched the blanket over it as well. Then, she turned to the closet, removing one of the backpacks that had been stored there, and began to pack her mother's things. Only the necessities now, best not to put in anything sentimental unless the worst really did come to pass, but the backpack would be ready. She belied this fact by taking another of her father's sweaters from the closet, and carefully putting it away with the clothes she'd already packed for her mother.

She had left her mother's room, then lingered in the hallway. Down further, just at the end, was Carver's room. The door was open a crack, but the room had been empty for months.

Carver hadn't waited for the Draft once word got out that another Blight - the first in something like four hundred years- was possibly working its horrible way up from the long-abandoned Deep Roads. He'd signed on with the King's Army Reserves as soon as he'd gotten wind of the action. The ensuing row when he'd revealed his plans to enlist had been nothing short of stupid, in retrospect. What had started as genuine concern for her only brother - who was barely even of __age__ \- going off to war had ended with a petty squabble that she couldn't even think about too long without feeling an embarrassed, angry flush creep up the back of her neck. In the end, Carver had enlisted, and Hawke had gone West to Redcliffe. Being a stubborn idiot was definitely a trait that ran strong between the two of them.

The hollow pull of his empty room had drawn her. She'd pushed open the door with a finger, glancing in sideways. The bed, dresser, and dumpster-recovery TV set were all in their right places. Over the few years they'd lived in the place Carver had plastered a good corner chunk of the wall by his bed thickly with flyers from clubs that still indulged the local youngsters with underage admission and free music. Hawke had often played chaperone, milling around by the bar while Carver and Bethany mingled with other kids their age, enjoying the freedom of being just another face in the crowd. He'd whined and complained about it, of course, and whined louder every time she had to keep him from getting into a fight, or out of one. But they'd all gotten home safe, and for each of those little victories there was a flyer plastered on his wall.

She'd hovered in the doorway, turning slightly to take in the rest of the small room. His desk had been left a scattered mess of left-behind pencils and stray pieces of paper, a book hung half-off the side to hold the place he'd left off reading. Hawke glanced at the cover. __Hard in Hightown__ by V. Tethras; a favorite she'd loaned to Carver months back, after Bethany had snatched it from her as soon as she'd turned the last page. Between the three of them, the spine had been broken, the pages foxed. The cover curled back from the rest of the book as it perched lopsidedly on the edge of the desk.

Hawke had picked up the novel, carefully holding Carver's place with a finger. He'd stopped at a bad point; the hero's back was up against a wall, with no help in sight in the middle of a deadly conflict. Of course, this being a Tethras novel, the hero's wit and cleverness would win the day, at least until the next crisis loomed. She placed the novel back on the desk, just where it had been before. She hadn't cleaned in here. Carver had done well enough on his own, and now that he was gone it was just another unnecessary trespass to do anything other than opening a window to let in a little fresh air.

There would be no backpack in his closet; he'd taken it with him to war. There was nothing she could do for him here. Hawke quietly backed out of the room, and nudged the door back to where it had been.

She went downstairs.

The TV was on in the living room, turned to low volume while Bethany dozed on the sofa. Hawke stopped to drape a blanket over her before going to the kitchen.

The pantry was stocked with the usual junk, and thanks to Bethany's intense need for organization it was the work of just a few minutes to separate the road food from whatever would be too cumbersome to carry or too inconvenient to prepare on the run. Hawke piled boxes on the kitchen table: energy and cereal bars, pop tarts, trail mix, jerky of the beef, turkey, and tofurkey varieties. Sunflower seeds, mixed nuts, cookie and chip snack packs all went to the table as well. Stocked to her satisfaction, she set about separating everything into three even piles, unboxing bars and tarts, pouring economy-sized bags of seeds and nuts into smaller sandwich bags for travel. After the work of an hour, she packed each of the three piles into small bags of their own that could be snatched and stuffed into the backpacks at a moment's notice. Emptied bags and boxes she tossed into the recycling.

With those tasks done, there was one more that required her attention. Hawke went to the small door next to the pantry that opened down into the low-ceilinged basement. She ducked down the stairs, avoiding the ones that creaked, stretching out ahead of herself to pull the chain for the single light bulb that illuminated the little room.

There wasn't much down there but for a washer, a dryer, and storage. Holiday decorations, winter clothes, the leftovers of a family who had, through much struggle, managed to settle in the house for more than a few short months before having to flee again. Once Hawke and Bethany had grown into their powers - and gained the necessary control to continue living freely with said powers - there had been little need to flee into the night due to an accidental spell cast at the wrong time. There had also been enough time in this house to set aside a small space for a few clever Apostates to hone their talents, and store the requisite supplies for spellcasting. These things were stored behind the rickety staircase, in a small shelf hidden behind a larger one, built by Carver and their father on a sliding frame.

Hawke had pushed the false shelf out of the way, revealing the smaller storage space. There wasn't much there; it would have been extraordinarily stupid for any of them to try stockpiling any magical equipment. Lothering wasn't particularly heavy on Templar Enforcement, where Apostates were concerned, but Malcolm Hawke had always advised caution of his children, and practiced it himself. After the early years of constant moving to avoid Templar scrutiny, avoiding any more of that business was unanimously confirmed to be an excellent idea.

Still, there were necessities. Composition notebooks filled front to back, written mostly in Malcolm's neat, smooth handwriting. The newest volume was a mess shared between the two sisters. The handwriting varied from precise cursive on Bethany's pages to nearly illegible chicken scratch (though she argued she could read it just fine) on the pages Hawke had filled. Next to the notebooks were the Herbals - one a dictionary of all herbs and their properties for use by Mages, and its twin being the same for strictly non-magical medicinal uses. Bethany got more use out of those than Hawke ever had; healing was not the skill of the elder sister.

Next to the Herbals was an old, old spellbook. Leatherbound, Malcolm had claimed it was an heirloom. The pale cover had been stained dark with blood in one corner, and there were pages that wouldn't unstick no matter how many tricks the sisters had tried (Malcolm had forbade them from touching the book, when he was alive) and still sometimes reeked as though the blood had been spilled fresh. Hawke had her suspicions about the book's origin, and those stains, but had kept them to herself, and her father had never offered an explanation. She knew his opinions on blood magic, and could infer enough on her own without having to dig. Whatever reason her father had for keeping a book like that, it must have been a sound one.

The rest of the shelves were stocked with smaller things - a few scrying stones, crystals, little tools for magical workings. Dried herbs and compounding materials for small scale potions and spells. And then, there were the shot bottles.

There was something of a boom black market for Lyrium, among Apostates. While the stuff was readily available at specialized retailers for reasonable prices, only Mages registered with the local Circle had the clearance to purchase any. All of those retailers, of course, were Chantry controlled and often had at least one Templar on staff. Identification cards scanned at the register showed the Mage was an approved, Harrowed Mage of the Circle and the transaction would take. Unharrowed apprentices weren't even let out of the Circle Tower, and thus had no reason to be buying Lyrium at an outside retailer. Should anyone else attempt to make a purchase, the store would refuse the sale, and the Templar on Duty would then take their duty __seriously__. No intelligent Apostate would just walk in to the local Apothecary for a potion.

An intelligent Apostate __would__ , however, would know that there were plenty of shops that sold energy drinks in tiny little plastic shot bottles, and would know that the right shops would have a shelf of those little bottles with expired labels behind the counter. Little bottles whose seals had already been broken, contents emptied, and then refilled with refined Lyrium potion of varying potencies. Ask for a Ginkgo energy shot and you'd get a bottle from the front counter. Ask for the __blue-leaf__ Ginkgo energy shot, and the knowledgeable shopkeep would reach to that special shelf, and you'd be paying right out the nose for those tiny little shots.

There were ten arranged on the shelf; each had cost as much as two of the larger first aid ampules that she'd packed into the kits upstairs. Hawke had quietly sent up more than one prayer of thanks that Lyrium potions were nonperishable over the years, and this was again one of those times.

The potions went into two bags, one with seven, to go to Bethany, the other with three for herself. If they had to run, if they had to fight, Hawke could do so well enough without needing to rely on magic. Bethany was a firebrand, but also would need to heal for them, if things got rough. If she ran out of mana at a crucial moment… well, best to make sure that didn't happen.

The crystals and herbs would have to stay behind, along with most of the tools. The scrying stones and mirror could stay as well - Hawke could use a cracked compact just as well as the ornate, silver-backed piece that had been a birthday gift. Beautiful, cherished, but if she broke it while fleeing Darkspawn she'd feel worse than leaving it behind for some future urban spelunker to perhaps get use of.

She thought twice about the herbs, grabbing a fistful of dried elfroot and packing that in with the bottles. Then she turned her attention to the books.

The notebooks wouldn't be difficult to carry, so they would be packed up. The Herbals would stay - they were heavy hard-back textbooks, and had no real practical value. The leatherbound tome, however… that would have to come with as well. It would be a gamble carrying it; getting caught with a book that had one __whiff__ of blood magic about it was a get into jail free card on the best terms, and a quick trip to Andraste's arms at worst. Still, taking it with was better than risking it falling into the hands of someone that would actually use it.

Hawke had then tucked the tome and notebooks under her arm, gave the shelves one more once-over, then slid the false shelf back into place. Gathering up the potions and elfroot, she then clicked off the light, and ascended the stairs again.

The books and potions were set with the provisions she'd organized on the kitchen table. She leaned back from the table to peer into the living room. Bethany was still fast asleep on the couch. The TV had switched to a commercial advertising special Mabari dental bones. The clock on the wall near the sofa ticked itself to just past three AM.

She again went over what she'd gathered. Food, clothes, medicine… anything that could easily be carried along in a hurry. She'd brought plenty of cash with her from Redcliffe; with the savings from under her mattress it would be enough to set them up somewhere for at least a month. Anything else would be tied up in her mother's bank account. Everything was more or less in readiness; all she had to do now was pack the backpacks with what she'd separated out. If it was necessary.

 _ _Maker. Please. Don't let it be necessary.__

There was nothing left to do but wait. Hawke had drifted around the house anyway, sometimes lingering next to the sofa, watching the looping news reports of the army's march on Ostagar. They were confident that the campaign would be successful; Loghain's forces would soon be arriving to provide necessary backup to the main body of the army already stationed in the ruined parts of the ruined city. Air support from Redcliffe would suppress any movement from the Kokari Wilds National Forest. The protests that the land those jets would be firebombing were protected Dalish reservations had dried up weeks ago, with no Dalish to represent themselves and carry the protests further.

She'd gone back up to check on her mother, still sound asleep under the covers.

She'd grabbed the backpacks and stuffed them full of the provisions she'd gathered.

She'd climbed under her bed, and Bethany's, pulling out the long-handled tactical riot spears that they used as staves, checked the edges on the spearheads, and put them with the backpacks.

She'd pulled the gun from its lockbox in her father's desk, then packed it away in her mother's bag.

She'd paced the house again.

And again.

And then, finally, she'd fished the pack of cigarettes out of her backpack and gone to the front porch to watch the Southern sky.

She smoked in silence, listening. Waiting in the small hours before dawn.


	2. Prologue Part 2

Prologue Part 2

* * *

Noise woke in the darkness.

At first, Hawke wasn't entirely sure what she was hearing. It started as a low groan, picking up slowly, shuddering through the quiet neighborhood like a wounded animal wandered in from the Wilds. Then it picked up speed, the sound galloping, screaming overhead and then she realized with a sudden, sick drop in her stomach… the sirens. Local. Emergency Services had activated the warning sirens.

Hawke leaped to her feet. A few lights flickered on in the other houses. From behind her, she could hear Bethany calling out for her.

"Front porch!" She shouted back, then took one final drag and flicked the cigarette out into the street. Exhaling a cloud, she dashed into the house, nearly colliding with Bethany. She grabbed her sister's hand, staring her hard in the face. "Go wake up mom, I've got us packed. Once she's up, get everything in the car."

"But-"

"Mom first, get her awake and aware. Make sure she gets her wallet. You've got yours? Good." She spun Bethany around by the shoulders and shoved her at the stairs, before diving in to the living room. How long did they have until the neighbors started panicking? Probably a while; even with the whole continent in a state of emergency, she knew that the sirens alone wouldn't be enough to get people moving.

She glanced at the TV.

The video feed was a loop: Fleeing soldiers, an explosion. A vertigo spin as the news chopper made its final descent. Blurred faces of unspeakable nightmares. Underneath, the news bulletin scrolled in white text on red: CATASTROPHIC FAILURE IN OSTAGAR. KING'S FORCES WITHOUT AID. ARMY FLEEING DARKSPAWN. EVACUATION OF ALL MAJOR CITIES IM-

The screen went black. The lights died. There was bang and a brief shout of pain from upstairs, then a clatter as Bethany dragged Leandra down to the living room, favoring her knee.

"What the fuck happened to the lights?!"

"Bethany!"

"Sorry! I'm sorry, just…" Bethany gestured at her sister. "Well?"

Hawke flicked the living room light switch. There was no response. A cold prickle crawled up her spine. _ _About a hundred miles. That's how far away Ostagar is. How fast do Darkspawn move? Did they cause this, or is it just a blown transformer? How long do we have to run?__

How long do we have to run?

"Bags are by the door," Hawke said, gesturing to the backpacks. "Beth, your staff is there too. Mom, you have the gun."

Leandra gasped, her hands flying to her throat. "But I-"

"Dad taught you how to shoot it, didn't he?" Hawke stomped to the door, hefted Leandra's backpack, thrusting it grim-faced at her mother. Leandra fumbled with the backpack, eyeing the gun where it was strapped snug in a removable holster.

"Of… course he did but... Honey surely we don't-"

"Mom, everyone who didn't run already is going to start running soon." She moved closer, bearing down on her mother, staring at her intently in the inky darkness. "The roads will probably be packed. We likely won't even make it to the freeway if we wait any longer." Feigning the bravery she desperately wished she had, she placed her hands carefully, firmly on her mother's shoulders. "We have to go." We should have been gone already.

A breadth of silence was cast between them. Slowly, Leandra nodded.

Hawke let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and patted her mother's shoulders. "Good. Good. You and Bethany get in the car, I'll close up the house. Beth, you're driving."

"Where are we going? What about Carver?"

Hawke went cold. What about Carver? What were the odds that he'd been able to run? Would he have? Had there been a formal retreat, or had the slaughter simply been so bad that anyone not already dead had simply cut and run? Would he come this way? Oh, blessed Maker what if he was _ _dead?__

"I-"

Another sound, louder and closer, had detached itself from the siren's piercing scream. Someone was leaning on a car horn, approaching the neighborhood. There was yelling. Hawke turned, spying headlights through the front window of the living room, swerving wildly and approaching far too fast for a residential street. Hawke dashed back out the door. Neighbors had begun spilling out of their homes, tripping over each other, some going for their cars, others milling about in stunned surprise. The car - a Jeep with emergency lights strung around its frame - screamed up the road, its driver screaming even louder.

"-CKING DARKSPAWN GET UP YOU FUCKERS GET UP AND GET GOING THEY'RE COMING-"

And then it shrieked past, horn blaring, down the street. A flash of light caught the corner of Hawke's eye; another Jeep had followed the first, at a slight distance. More sets of headlights behind, breaking off to other residential areas. Five cars. One more coming up their road. She was on the sidewalk now - someone shoved past her to cross the street, dashing to another house. She could hear glass breaking somewhere.

The second jeep slowed as it approached, just enough for one figure to jump from the back, and then it swerved, taking a side street back towards downtown. The figure began to run towards her.

She knew that run. Even in the dark, with only stars and terror for illumination, she knew that gorky, stupid run. Thank the fucking Maker, she knew that run.

"Carver," came out as a choked gasp. She swallowed, tried again, raising her arms above her head. "CARVER!"

She started to run to him, but tripped over her own feet as Bethany dashed past, launching herself down the street and to her twin, screaming his name with wild, panicked relief. Their shadows were one for the brief second they met, then they turned, separated, and sprinted towards their sister. Leandra, shaking, had come up behind Hawke and clung to her arm with one hand, reaching for her son with the other.

"Oh, baby, oh my baby, where did you __come from?"__ Leandra gasped, then stumbled as Hawke pushed her, gently, towards the twins, who folded around her, the three of them holding each other, sobbing in relief.

Another crash of glass came from one of the other dark houses. Hawke spun, scanning the street. Someone was already taking advantage of the panic to break into their neighbors' homes; to what end she could hardly fathom. Further down the street, a scream cut under the siren's blaring, and the sound of a car pulling away at speed fled into the dark.

"We have to go," she said, making for the house. She jumped up the stairs and dashed into the foyer, grabbing her and Bethany's backpacks and staves. She snatched the keys from the rack on the wall, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Her hand lingered on the doorknob for only a second before she pulled herself away and pushed in long strides towards the car. "Come on!"

She tossed the bags and staves in the boot of the car. Carver, taking the initiative, shoved Bethany and Leandra into their seats, taking the driver's side for himself.

"Where are we at, Carver?" Hawke asked, sliding in behind him. Another flock of jets screamed overhead, flying much lower this time, their passage causing the whole car to rattle.

"Not fucking here, that's for sure," Carver muttered. He jammed the key in the ignition, put the car in reverse, and tore out of the driveway and into the street. More of their neighbors were starting to do the same, piling belongings and each other into their vehicles. "We've gotta head East. Northeast. As far away in the opposite direction as we can get."

"They were saying the King died," Bethany said, twisting in her seat to stare out the back window. Hawke glanced back as well; the orange light in the distant South had gotten significantly brighter.

"Yeah, him and like fucking everybody else," Carver said. His hands were tight on the wheel, jaw set, foot pressed hard on the gas. "Our backup? Never fucking came."

"Lukas?" Leandra whispered, leaning in towards Carver's seat. "Your cousin Lukas, did you see him?"

Carver gave a short, tight shake of his head. "No. Well, yeah, but only for a minute. He went off with some special forces guy. Never saw him after that." Other cars were beginning to join them on the street; he swerved between them, accelerating

"Oh, Maker…" Leandra sat back, putting her hands over her face. "Oh, no."

"The guy Lukas went with... They got us to retreat. They told us there wasn't any help coming. Fuck, those things, they came so fast." The speedometer continued to tic upwards. Carver's breath was coming quick. Hawke could taste the blood that had soaked into his uniform just from the stench of it. "Said we had to run. Fucking everybody ran. Everybody tried to get to the jeeps. All I could do was hang on to the side and-" The car swerved drunkenly away from a minivan backing out of a driveway.

"Slow down, Carver," Hawke said, placing her hand on the back of his seat.

"Don't fucking tell me to slow down! Don't you __fucking tell me that__! Do you know what we're running from?!" He turned sharply, the wheel turning with him. Bethany and Leandra screamed; Hawke lunged forward, grabbed the wheel, and yanked it back to center.

"We won't be running from __anything__ if you get us into a bloody wreck!" She snapped. _"_ _ _Slow down!"__

There was a wet, soft noise. A kind of 'whump,' like a sack of wet laundry being dropped onto damp earth. The interior of the car suddenly became much brighter. Carver's foot drifted away from the gas pedal; the car began to slow. Hawke released the wheel, turning as she did to look over her shoulder and out the back window.

The Southern horizon had exploded in a plume of brilliant flame.

"Holy shit," Hawke breathed. "Did they drop a nuke?"

"No, but they might as well have," Carver whispered. The car had slowed to a crawl. Other cars on the street had stopped, some of their inhabitants scrambling out to see."It's only gonna make it worse."

"What do you mean?"

Lightning crackled from within the plumes of black ash belching into the sky.

 _ _That… that's close. Closer than Ostagar. That plume can't be any farther than forty miles away,__ Hawke thought, a cold shudder crawling up her spine. The destruction was that clear, that easy to spot, even from so far.

 _ _How long do we have to run?__

"I don't know," the car began to accelerate again. Carver gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. "I heard that guy Lukas went with say something about bombing the place being bad. I don't know."

"Where do we go?" Bethany asked. She sat on her knees, staring out the back window, hand clutching Leandra's as they sped away from the light.

How long do we have to run?

How long? The Darkspawn probably couldn't outrun cars, and didn't - as far as anyone knew - have vehicles of their own. They just crawled up from out of the deepest pits of your nightmares and swarmed through the Deep Roads until they breached and burned everything in their path.

"I don't care! Away from here!" Carver said, pressing on the gas, then easing off as Hawke glared at him in the rear mirror. He turned down one of the dark streets, away from the more crowded main road. "Look, just. Sit tight, Beth, I'll get us somewhere sa-"

The sound that interrupted him was sharp, sudden, heavy. The car lurched and something big hit the windscreen. It cracked with the sound of breaking ice and then buckled in, the duraplast glass curving in a shattering bowl to catch whatever the car had struck. Hawke pitched forward. She flung one arm in front of her mother, the other shielded her own face from cracking against the back of Carver's seat. Bethany shrieked and ducked, covering her head with her arms. Carver slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, turned 180 degrees, then halted in the middle of an empty street. The engine rattled.

Very slowly, Hawke lowered her arms. She sat up, peering at the dark shape now wedged into the car's front windscreen, buckled at such an angle that it was scant inches from Bethany's face. Bethany, shivering, tried to scoot away from it.

"Oh, Maker… oh Carver I think you killed someone…"

"I… I…" Carver's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "I didn't see…"

Hawke undid her seatbelt. Leandra flailed at her, grabbing her arm, head shaking frantically. Hawke gently pulled away, opened her car door, and slid out of her seat.

The wailing sirens were louder here. If she cared to look she'd see one of them standing attention only a few hundred yards away, screaming away on backup power. There were no people sounds, no lights in the neighborhood where they'd halted. In the distance there was a flicker of headlights around where she was sure the freeway was. All of this was periphery; as Hawke rounded the car her only true focus was on the figure currently merged with the car's windscreen.

She vaguely remembered a conversation with her mother from weeks back, a complaint that since the Blight had begun, the suburbs had been overrun by wildlife. Deer, wolves, bears, bloody __dragonlings__ even, anything in the Kokari Reservation that hadn't been Blighted or eaten or otherwise killed had fled the destruction, finding the manicured lawns and zoned 'woodlands' as far more hospitable territory than the wilds.

This was not a deer.

The thing hadn't seemed to move since the car had come to a halt, but from here Hawke could see the slow rise and fall of the thing's… torso, she supposed, indicating breath. The rattling of the car's engine was undercut by a sound she was all too familiar with - the slow, wet roll of a death rattle. She crept closer, and then the smell hit her.

She staggered back - Maker what a stench - throwing her arm over her nose. It smelled like more than death; she knew what a corpse was supposed to smell like, and the thing itself clearly wasn't dead. Its bulk still twitched, its breath rattled. She'd been around corpses, had even been the cause of a few, but nothing was like this… decay. She crept closer to get a better look at the thing, and the rattling breath stopped. A glance through the window showed that Bethany had crawled into her vacated seat in the back and was holding Leandra; Carver was still staring bug-eyed at the thing in the windscreen.

Hawke realized she'd left her spear in the car about half a second before the thing heaved itself away from the screen, drawing in another horrible, rattling breath. It clattered on the hood of the car, turning this way and that as it wrenched itself from its half-prison, and it howled. Inside the car Hawke could hear her family scream.

"CARVER! REVERSE! __NOW!"__

Carver punched the car into reverse. The thing rolled off the hood, landing in a dark heap on the street. She could see its face, in the headlights.

Lightning flew from her hands before it had a chance to take a second breath. The thing twitched and screamed as the lightning hit it, writhed as the current coursed through its broken, hideous body, and then with a choking, smoking gasp, went still.

Hawke ran for the car. She dove into the abandoned front seat, turned, braced her back and kicked up and out with both feet, smashing the shattered windscreen, then with her hands tossed sheets of the crackled glass out of the car and onto the street. Carver, shaken from his stupor, twisted in his seat and brought his elbow up to smash the screen on his side. Once the screen was clear, Carver hit the gas again, and they sped off into the night.

"What was that?" Leandra asked, leaning forward to grip Hawke's arm. Hawke placed a hand over her mother's, realized she was bleeding - the shattered windscreen had done a number on her hands - and withdrew.

"I think it was a Darkspawn," Hawke said, wiping her injured hand on her jeans. The gesture did little more than leave a sticky, red smear, but there was little else she could do for now.

"Your hand," Bethany said, reaching for her. "Did it get you?"

"No, I cut it on the screen. No-" Hawke patted Bethany's hand away, then grabbed it back, kissed her fingers in thanks, pushed away again. "Don't heal me, save it 'til we need it. There's a first aid kit in my bag, just hand me that."

"Yeah, don't waste your magic to instantly heal someone," Carver bit out. "Waste the bandages instead!"

"We're going to use the resources we have and not __exhaust our sister__ , Carver," Hawke snapped, taking the kit from Bethany.

Carver went silent, but the car accelerated perceptibly. Fine, let him drive fast. If there were more of those things out there, already filtering into the neighborhoods, he could drive as fast as he liked. Hawke bandaged her hand, barely concentrating on doing it properly as she scanned the streets ahead of them for more Darkspawn.

How had it gotten here? And so quickly? Lothering certainly wasn't far from danger, but the city proper, as any other, was as insulated from Darkspawn as any city center could get. The few instances in recent memory that any Darkspawn had made it to an urban area had been news sensations for weeks, with media catcalls at Special Forces and Special Forces catcalls at the Crown and nothing had ever really been resolved. But even so, in those situations, there had been swift response and the creatures had been dealt with. Now, the only question that mattered was just how many more of the horrible, stinking things were hiding in the dark.

Hawke realized there was a new noise under the sirens, under the wind whipping through the car. A soft, insistent chiming. She glanced at the dashboard and cursed.

The gas indicator was nearly down to E.

 _ _Maybe 15 more miles until we're out. No electricity. Do stations still have manual pumps? Maker, please, if nothing else. Let them have a damned manual gas pump.__

They'd made it to the freeway. It was mostly empty of cars; a few wrecks had been left to smolder in the pre-dawn light, adding their fumes to the smoke already crawling up the horizon. The sun was a glaring red cataract, hovering between the blackened, burning landscape and the sickly ash clouds pouring out from the wreckage that was Ostagar. Carver had done everything he could to push the car as far as possible, but it had finally sputtered out in the middle of the leftmost lane about three miles from the nearest gas station turnoff. They would have to hike the rest of the way, and pray the place had what they needed.

Hawke took point, spear out and ready, searching every shadow for signs of Darkspawn. There had been more, skulking along the sides of residential streets. She'd spied them slinking into houses, sniffing around cars, searching. Scouts? Stragglers? Was the hoard headed this way or were these just unfortunate remnants? There was no way of knowing, now. If there was anything out there, at least she had it on good authority that she'd smell it coming, first.

The thought crossed her mind almost the same moment a wave of stink hit her full-on in the face. She drew up short, gesturing for the others to halt. She heard the soft rustle and click of Carver taking the safety off his service rifle.

Somewhere ahead, a voice shouted, "No! You shall __not__ have him!" Gunfire popped. Hawke ran towards the sound, ignoring the shouts of warning behind her.

She crested the exit ramp leading up to the station they'd made their heading. There was another wreck here: three cars, one of them an army transport. The transport was rattling in a small ditch next to the service road. The other cars were aflame, wrecked in what looked like a violent t-bone. Two Darkspawn were crawling on top of the transport. Next to it, one figure in army fatigues stood with their back to Hawke, dragging another away from the wreck. Three Darkspawn lay dead at the soldier's feet. In the firelight their faces were nightmares.

From behind her, a yell. Bethany had reached her. The soldier turned, wild eyed, gun up. Hawke froze. Bethany shouted a warning; the two remaining Darkspawn leaped from the top of the transport, straight for them.

Training, instinct, and terror joined forces and forced Hawke into action while her thinking brain was still catching up. Hawke brought up her spear in time to meet one of the Darkspawn, burying the spearhead in its shoulder. It shrieked as she used its momentum to carry it over her shoulder and to the ground. She wrenched the spear from it, stabbed again, aiming for the chest. Fire exploded right next to her head and she caught another facefull of the singularly awful stench of Darkspawn, now thoroughly barbecued. It took all of her willpower not to gag as the thing fell dead.

 _"_ _ _Apostate!"__

Hawke flinched. Bethany jumped closer to her, grabbing her arm. Their hands fumbled until they were holding; Hawke squeezed Bethany's fingers. The second figure - the one the soldier had been dragging away from the wreck - now stood. In the firelight Hawke could see plainly the winged blade badge of office on his left breast, just over his heart. A __fucking Templar__. Injured, but still a Templar, and pointing directly at Bethany.

Hawke bared her teeth, tasted ozone, and let a current run down her spear into the still-struggling Darkspawn she had pinned. It twitched a little jig and then fell dead.

"Two Apostates, Templar," she said. She yanked the spear from the cooked creature's chest, and rested it on her shoulder. "You're welcome."

The Templar cursed, took a step forward, then staggered, falling to one knee. The soldier was at his side immediately. She - a tall and imposing she - put a hand around the Templar's arm, helping him stand again.

"Wesley, not now. Stop squirming," she was saying, but the Templar pulled his arm away and stalked forward in a halting limp. Bethany backed away, colliding with Carver and Leandra, who had come up behind them, gasping for breath. Hawke stood her ground. The Templar bore down, reaching for a weapon he no longer had.

"I am charged with the apprehension of all Apostate Mages," he said, glaring down at Hawke. The soldier approached behind the Templar but didn't look like she was about to back his claim. "The Order dictates-"

"Wesley," the soldier's voice was gentle but firm as she took the Templar's arm once more. "They saved our lives, Dear. The Maker will understand."

Hawke hazarded a glance between the two of them, and decided to appeal to the Soldier. She at least looked like she was willing to keep her - what, boyfriend? Husband? - from attacking them, if his injuries didn't stop him first.

"My sister is a healer," she said, nodding to the Soldier. "If you-"

"If you think I will entrust my safety to an unknown Apostate," Wesley bristled, then winced, and then gasped and went to his knee again. Bethany was at his side in an instant, pale green light already filling her hands. His face went from terrified to angry to resigned in the space of seconds. He flinched away from Bethany and then sagged as the healing magic took hold, taking a deep, pained breath. "All right," he murmured, waving a hand vaguely.

Hawke shook her head, then looked to the soldier. She blinked; the soldier had extended her hand.

"My name Aveline Vallen," the soldier said. She gestured to Wesley with her chin. "And my husband, Ser Wesley. Please excuse him. We can go on to hating each other later, but for now we're grateful for the help."

Hawke clasped hands, giving her a nod. In spite of herself, a grin pulled at the corner of her mouth. She glanced back at the Templar. "The wrath of the Templars is terrible indeed, to be hunting Apostates at a time like this."

Behind her, Carver snorted a laugh, but Bethany cleared her throat. "Sis, the nice Templar might agree not to arrest us if you stop antagonizing him, maybe," She said, grunting as she helped Wesley to his feet. "I'm sorry, Ser, that's about as good as I can make it."

"Wise girl," said Aveline, releasing Hawke's hand. Hawke could see the unspoken 'wiser than her sister' flash on Aveline's face, and dropped the grin. She cleared her throat, standing a little straighter.

"I'm Hawke. This is my sister Bethany," She jerked a thumb at her brother, and then pointed to her mother. "Brother Carver, and our mother, Leandra."

Aveline put her head to one side. "Hawke is a family name," She said, indicating the name badge on Carver's uniform.

"Her name's G-" Carver began. Hawke slapped a hand over his mouth.

"And it works just fine for me, doesn't it?" She glared hard at Carver, who waggled his eyebrows, but held up a hand. He'd drop it, for now. Hawke took away her hand, then nodded to the group at large. "We should be moving."

There was a pause, and she realized that everyone was looking to her. She swallowed hard, hoisted her backpack, and began marching towards the gas station again. Aveline fell into step behind her, Wesley at her side. Carver, Bethany, and Leandra followed. Hawke pressed on, ignoring the sick, terrified feeling crawling up her spine as she realized that, of all people, everyone present expected __her__ to lead.

 _ _Just focus on the next step,__ she thought, gripping and regripping her staff, trying to get a grip on herself. Get to the gas station, see if they have a manual pump. Get gas. Get back to the car. Get everyone in the car, somehow. Get out of here.

You can do this, Hawke. For their sake, you have to.

There were no manual pumps. Not even a backup generator to get the regular pumps going again, and no way that anyone in the group knew to get at the reserve tanks that would be under the station itself. Frustrated, terrified, and exhausted, Hawke had dropped her bag in front of the station, gone down to one knee, and picked the lock on the front door. Leandra, scandalized, had attempted to chastise her daughter, but Aveline - surprisingly - had been the one to gently remind her her that they were in an emergency situation. No one would miss a few things that would spoil anyway.

Leandra had acquiesced, but the look she shot her daughter indicated that there would be a very intense line of questioning later, specifically in regards to where in the holy blazes her eldest child had picked up such a larcenous talent.

They raided the gas station. Aveline and Wesley, without much in the way of provisions of their own, filled their packs with what they could. While they did, Aveline related, in a voice full of stern displeasure and affection, how Wesley had come to find her on the battlefield after the other Templars had fled with the Chantry. Bethany had sighed over the romance of it all, which Wesley more than Aveline had seemed to appreciate. Clearly, the Templar was a romantic. In that, he and Bethany were certainly equals.

He's about as scary as a puppy, Hawke thought as she picked the locks on the cash registers. Whoever had closed up shop had been kind enough not to count their drawers into the electric safe under the counter - the lock of which she had no hope of opening with her meager skill - so she pulled out and divided the cash among the group. __Bloody Templar with a heart of gold,__ she thought as she organized the take. __Fine lot of good that'll do us if we find any other Templars out here, he'll probably sell us out at the first opportunity and get a big, fat reward for it.__

She knew she was being uncharitable, of course; Wesley seemed all right. After the initial bitching and moaning, he had come along with hardly a complaint or harsh word, though his face still had the expression of iron-shod resolve all Templars seemed to adopt as a default if any Mages were present in the room. It was probably stuck that way, so molded from years of training and Lyrium addiction that his face had reshaped to a visage of constant stern displeasure. Hawke didn't relish the eventuality that he'd go into withdrawl without Lyrium; an injured Templar was bad enough. An injured Templar with the shakes and hallucinations would be unbearable.

Aveline was another story entirely. An Officer in the King's Army, she had been through plenty of campaigns, multiple tours throughout Orlais and Ferelden. While Ostagar had been her first major encounter with Darkspawn, she'd clearly seen enough action that even their horrifying, disgusting forms hadn't put her off too hard. She carried a light infantry service rifle, a Chevalier's blade, and a Templar shield that looked like it had bashed in more than a few skulls. Guns were only so effective on Darkspawn, she had explained, and more direct tactics were often required to subdue the beasts.

While she still wasn't sure about Wesley, Hawke trusted Aveline. If nothing else she trusted the soldier to keep her husband in line, and her blade between them and the Darkspawn. It certainly ticked the odds in their favor, if only slightly. One more blade against the things going bump in the dark was one more than they'd had before, and Hawke was not the kind of person to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if it was tethered to a Templar.

Her opinion of the Soldier improved even more when Aveline handed her an energy shot - a legitimate one - with a quiet look of understanding. Hawke knew she would be flagging soon from sleeplessness and fear. Best to stave that off as long as possible. They couldn't afford to sleep.

With the gas station stripped of anything they could use, Hawke led the group East, following the highway. Clouds of black ash had poured into the atmosphere, blown by a harsh South wind. They all but blotted out the sun as it crept up over the edge of the world, a blazing red cataract that left the rest of the world as they knew it under an orange-grey pall. Pale ashes fell from the sky like dry snow. They marched in file, six sets of eyes set on the shadows around them, watching for any sign of Darkspawn.

"So, where are we going?" Carver asked, drawing up even with Hawke. Her mouth twitched into half a frown; she shrugged a shoulder.

"Not a clue; I just figure East and North is about as far from Ostagar as we can get." She glanced at her brother. He looked like he'd been dragged to the Black City and back, face down, over broken glass. There were healed cuts all over his face - Bethany's work, no doubt - that had bled enough to cover him with a grit of blood, dust, and ash. There was a kind of excited light in his eyes that Hawke recognized; adrenaline had completely seized him, and would carry him through probably a few more hours before it left him too exhausted to move. Kind of like how she felt now.

"You look like shit, kid," she said, gently. He scowled; she grinned, smacking his arm with the back of her hand. Her injured hand. It throbbed, painfully, but she covered the wince. The pain was welcome, honestly. At this point she was pretty sure it and the energy shot were the only things keeping her on her feet.

"You look worse," Carver countered. Then his head jerked, eyes scanning the area around them, tense. Seeing nothing, he relaxed again. "We have to figure out something," he said.

"Well, let me know once you do, because I'm at a serious fucking loss for where to go from here," said Hawke, waving her hand at the road ahead of them.

"We could go to Kirkwall," said Leandra, coming up behind them, hand in hand with Bethany. Hawke stopped short. Just behind them, Wesley and Aveline did as well. Wesley looked curiously at Leandra.

"While I realize I am perhaps out of my mind for saying this, Mistress Hawke," he said, "I doubt that is a good idea, considering your family is rather saturated with Apostates."

"It wouldn't be my first choice," said Bethany. "Kirkwall has a reputation regarding Templars and martial law."

"I know," said Leandra. "But, we do have family there - your Uncle Gamlen. And the estate. We'd be protected."

"A family name might not do much there," said Wesley. "Honestly, Miss, you may want to reconsider."

"Not to mention," said Hawke, "We'd have to go to Gwaren and hitch a ferry up North. That's South from here, and everything in that direction is either a flaming inferno, or crawling with Darkspawn."

Leandra gave a dramatic shrug. "Well? It's the only option I can think of. We can stand here arguing about it or-"

A howling shriek cut through the air. They spun as one, turning towards the sound. Too late, Aveline cursed. "Distraction!" She snapped, then spun, drawing her sword. Darkspawn burst from the shrub cover by the side of the road, scrambling over the highway blacktop. These carried swords, pikes, and maces to do whatever damage their teeth and claws couldn't rend. The smell was dizzying.

Hawke threw down her bag and put up her spear, dashing forward to take them head on. Carver and Aveline flanked her left and right, swords drawn. Fire burst in bright flashes from Bethany's hands.

In the gnashing, stinking fray, a stray thought caught hold of the back of Hawke's mind, under the fighting terror. __How long have they been hunting us?__ Spear up. Block. Duck, spin, Spirit Bolt, run. Stab. Stab. Stab. __That's pack behavior, right? One to distract us, while the others come in for the kill? Just how intelligent are they?__

Run. Turn. Spear up, down, around, get it under the armor and then in. Feel the give. Pull. Charge the bolt. Knock them back. __Turn, block, no-!__

She clashed with one of the beasts, staggering under the force of a blow from a sword as long as she was tall. She twisted, went down on one knee. Her injured hand throbbed and her grip slipped, the shaft of her spear hit her shoulder. She tilted sideways, pushed up with her good hand. The 'spawn's blade skidded up the shaft and away. It shrieked at her, pulled back to swing, then staggered, half-turning as Aveline brought her sword round to catch it in the side. She chopped once, twice, bisecting it on the final swing. It fell with a sickening hiss. Aveline grabbed Hawke's arm and hauled her to her feet.

"We have to-"

A noise echoed over them. A low, horrible bellow of rage, followed by a great, thudding crash. Hawke turned, and froze.

It was... Enormous. One stride took it across half the highway, leaving cracks in the asphalt as it thundered towards them. Teeth like jagged razors dripped with spit and ichor in a face that looked like it had been stitched together from rag parts of other monsters. Its flesh stretched over plates and spikes of bone that looked like roughly-carved scales. Heads, human heads, strung on barbed wire dangled from round its neck. It bellowed and its reeking breath blasted over the highway like dragon fire.

Its passage had cut their little group in half.

Hawke staggered into a guard position, shaking. It stood like a bulwark, behind massive legs she could see Bethany desperately standing between it and their mother. Carver had been thrown, she could see Wesley hauling him to his feet. The beast bellowed again. It turned, massive head swinging to take in its options. Pitted in its misshapen face, light glittered from tiny eyes as it spied prey. It turned away from the blades raised against it, and lunged.

Bright flashes of fire strobed around its head. It staggered, howling. Enraged. Bethany jumped back, shoving Leandra away, throwing up her spear to defend against the indefensible.

From somewhere, maybe a million miles away, Hawke heard someone screaming. Screaming as the thing's massive hand reached for her sister, as Bethany tried to dodge away, just bare inches from safety. As it lifted her by one leg above its head. As, for a second, it looked like it might just toss her away, like she would fly from its grip and land, injured but alive, some distance away.

Screaming, as it yanked down. As Bethany hit the pavement with a wet, horrible crunch. As it raised its arm again and tossed, throwing the broken thing that had been Bethany away, rag doll body twisting through the air. Screaming at the arc of blood and ashes following the brief, terminal flight.

Screaming as she charged. As lightning filled the world.

She didn't realize the thing was dead until Aveline pulled her from its corpse, yanking from her hands the spear she'd driven into the burnt-out pits that had been its eyes over and over and over. Holding her tight, murmuring __Gone now, it's gone now, Hawke, you've killed it, it's gone now__ … while all she could hear but for Aveline's voice was the high, keening wail of her mother's grief.


	3. Prologue Part 3

Prologue Part 3

* * *

 _"_ _ _O Maker, hear our cry:__

 _ _Guide us through the blackest nights__

 _ _Steel our heart against the temptations of the wicked__

 _ _Make us to rest in the warmest places."__

Black smoke obscured most of the road now. The popping, crackling flames sounded like artillery fire echoing over the nearly empty highway.

Wesley knelt at the head of the small pyre. Head bowed, he sang Transfigurations in a low, gentle voice. Leandra and Carver clung to his hands, heads also bowed, silent in their weeping. Leandra's mouth moved along with the chant. She had refused to leave her daughter's body behind. Even in the face of looming threat, there had been no arguments.

 _"_ _ _O Creator, see us kneel:__

 _ _For we walk only where you would bid us,__

 _ _Stand only in places you have blessed,__

 _ _Sing only the words you place in our throats."__

Hawke stared at the fire, spear gripped in one hand. The other, injured hand hung loose at her side. She stood so close to Aveline that their knuckles touched.

 _"_ _ _Our Maker, know our hearts__

 _ _Take her from a life of sorrow,__

 _ _Lift her from a world of pain__

 _ _Judge her worthy of your endless pride,"__

There had been no Darkspawn left after Hawke's outburst; all either dead or fled from her fury, buying them the chance to hold this makeshift funeral. Hawke and Aveline had pulled brush and kindling from the side of the road, while Wesley held on to Leandra and Carver, praying over them. Aveline had helped lift Bethany onto the bed of twigs and dry deadwood, laying her down as if to sleep. There was no way to clean the blood, but Aveline had tried anyway, wiping what she could from Bethany's face. From the remains of Bethany's face.

None of them had a lighter strong enough to start the pyre flame. Hawke had pulled the composition spellbooks from her bag, rifling through them until she found the page in Bethany's handwriting for the fire spell neither of them had never quite mastered.

The fire had taken so quickly. They hadn't even needed to douse the kindling with gas...

 _"_ _ _Our Creator, judge her whole:__

 _ _Find her well within Your grace__

 _ _Touch her with fire that she may be cleansed__

 _ _Tell her she has sung to Your approval."__

"Gas," Hawke muttered under her breath. "If only I'd remembered the __fucking gas__."

Aveline glanced at her sideways. "Hawke?"

Her hands clenched. The split on her right palm cut a line of fire up her nerves and into her heart, squeezing it in a vice of grief and pain. "I forgot to top off the tank," she said through gritted teeth, hating herself for saying out loud even as she said it, knowing there was really no way she could take fault for this but...

"Hawke, no," Aveline's voice was sharp, solid. She turned, laying her hand on Hawke's shoulder. "Listen to me-"

Hawke's breath came to her like a slow gasp. "No," she said. She hung her head, fist clenched, diving into the pain that felt like glass shards in her blood. Hadn't she done everything? Hadn't she done __everything__ to get them out safe? Oh, blessed Andraste she hadn't checked the __gas level__ on the fucking car and now-

Aveline grabbed her, turning her shoulders, forcing up her face so their eyes met. "Hawke, __this is not your fault__."

 _"_ _ _O Maker, hear our cry:__

 _ _Seat her by Your side in death__

 _ _Make her one within Your glory__

 _ _And let the world once more see Your favor."__

Oh, Maker, that corpse. Bethany, there. Burning. Skin blackening and peeling away as her hair went up in smoky wisps, clothes smoking and popping as the inflammable fabric fought the inevitable. There, where Hawke herself had laid her down, still and heavy and dead.

"Hawke" Aveline's grip felt like hot iron. The world spun; she knew she'd be falling if Aveline wasn't holding her up. She stared into Aveline's face from what felt like an underwater grave.

Buttons and buckles and the little ring she'd bought from the renaissance faire and the cheap braided necklace Hawke had made for her melting in the heat, face gone and hands gone and laughter, smile, voice, gone, nothing left but the bloodstains on the road, on Hawke's shoes, on her hands...

 _"_ _ _For you are the fire and the heart of the world,__

 _ _And comfort is only Yours to give."__

She shuddered, and her knees __did__ give. Aveline kept her hold, gently kneeling as Hawk lowered to the ground, one arm going around Hawke's shoulders, folding around her to block out the glow of the fire.

Fat bubbling and frying, flesh charring into __thick black smoke oh please not Bethany, please. Please, no, please. Anything but this. Why can't I fix this?__

Her hand throbbed in agony.

"Hawke," said Aveline, her hands on either side of Hawke's face now. "I can tell you are very strong."

Blood boiling and evaporating, life gone in a splatter of bright red on black ash and she could see just there where the thing had grabbed her and the cracks in the asphalt and the sound of her head hitting the ground and the shocked look on her face as the light winked out almost instantly from her eyes-

"You are going to have to be stronger than ever now-"

-and Mother screaming and the empty, half-gone, lost look in Carver's eyes, the dull surprise on the remains of Bethany's face-

"You __must__ carry on, Hawke-"

-so much blood, __everywhere__ ,-

"Your family needs __you__ Hawke, you __must__ pull together-"

-so much of it, hers and Bethany's, and oh Maker it was right there, why the fuck didn't she know anything about blood magic? How did you bring a burning corpse back to- no, no wrong, terrible, but the blood, was there something? Anything she could do? There was just... there was so much of it-

"Steady, Hawke, steady on now-"

 _ _I could… I can fix this, right?__

"Aveline."

"Hawke?"

 _ _Fix it how? What the hell do you think you can do, fool?__

"I need you to hit me."

"What? I'm not going to-"

Hawke could remember hearing, once, how a mage had preserved the spirit of a dead loved one using their blood. This memory - likely false, clearly not sane - bounced around the inside of her skull as she stared up into Aveline's face. Eyes hard, heart breaking, she could feel the tether of her own self control unraveling. She needed to be stopped.

"I need you to slap me as hard as you can, right now, or I will try to do something __very foolish__."

Hawke took a breath, and then she saw stars.

The slap Aveline leveled against her was like getting hit with a bowling ball that had been propelled from the end of a whip. Like she'd hit a brick wall at speed. Like she'd just told Aveline Vallen to slap her out of doing something stupid. It echoed across the empty highway, covering the sound of the pyre for only a second, but a second was long enough, more than long enough, to shake Hawke back away from the dark abyss where the songs of blood came from.

She profoundly hoped that she would never, ever have to ask Aveline to slap her again. For any reason.

Gingerly, she put her hand up to her cheek. The cut on her palm still throbbed, but the pain didn't bring the… other part. The sound, the temptation, was gone, replaced by simple pain. Her cheek felt like it had been rubbed raw; even her gums hurt. One side of her tongue had gone a little bit numb.

"Wow. I. Think I might be a bit deaf in this ear now," she said, softly.

"I'm sorry, you were-"

Hawke flapped a hand at her. "No, __no__. No, Aveline, thank you." Aveline wavered in front of her, fading into- ah. No, she hadn't been slapped blind. She was only crying.

They were only tears.

It was only pain.

And Bethany-

"She's gone," Hawke said, staring at the fire. "She was gone when she hit the pavement." All that burned now was a shell, and even that was being rent to ash. She stared at the silhouette trio of Wesley, Carver, and her Mother, holding hands in grieving fellowship as the flames popped and danced into the darkness.

Aveline's grip on her shoulder eased. "Yes," she said. Her voice was almost frighteningly gentle. "She is gone, Hawke. I am… I am so sorry."

Hawke nodded. They stood together, needing no signal. It was time to rise, and time to leave. She rubbed her face, hot from pain and the fire and the wet tracks of her own tears. "Thank you, Aveline," she said. It hurt to speak. Each word ripped up through a vice that had closed around her throat, but she spoke anyway.

Together they went to the pyre, and gathered the remainders of their families.

The clouds of black ash had begun to blow in thick from the South. Thick flakes of the stuff fell in intermittent bursts, covering the ground with a fuzzy, dark coat. Footfalls conjured soft, puffing clouds, and all the sound was muffled in the grey stillness. Brief breaks in the cloud cover let spears of sunlight through from time to time, but the only thing that kept the road ahead of them navigable was the median barrier for the highway.

The waist-high cement wall was now covered with a coating of ash thick enough that it looked as though it had been cured with obsidian. It stretched ahead of the wayfaring group as they headed South, into the rolling black clouds and bomb-induced wildfire, towards Gwaren. They covered their faces with shirts and scarves as the ash fell thicker and faster around them.

If there were Darkspawn prowling the service roads along the highway, they made no signal of their presence. Occasionally, what sounded like gunfire or the compressive whumph of dropping bombs would echo in from a distance, but in the cloud the direction and origin of the noise was a true mystery. Fires littered the roadside. Corpses were thicker the further South they moved - mostly dead soldiers, either fled too late or left behind to make a final stand against a force that had since moved on. The rest of the corpses were Darkspawn.

Hawke took point, but listened with quiet intent as Wesley pointed out and named the different types of Darkspawn among the corpses they passed, between bouts of painful coughing from the smoking ash around them. Genlock. Hurlock. The… beast that had taken Bethany, an Ogre. Other names, some obscure, some that sounded like foolish fairy-tale names for make-believe monsters, suddenly rendered all too real and terrible to contemplate.

They had marched from the funeral pyre less than half an hour before Wesley fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

In the ashen darkness, something… several somethings, began to hiss and chatter.

The group drew in. Two fighters, a Mage, and a Mother, closed around an infirm Templar nearly too weak to even draw breath. Weapons out, ready.

Waiting.

They did not have to wait for long.

The things that spilled from the darkness did not all have names. Among them were Genlocks and Hurlocks, but many were beasts beyond recognition, beyond any sensible description. They scrambled, ran, lunged, jumped at the meager prey that had wandered into their realm, under the ash, into the dark. They screamed in agony as they were burned by bright lightning, and cut by sharp blades, pierced by swift gunfire. They shrieked their vengeance as their prey denied its place and fought, pushing them back, keeping them from their rightful meal.

They screamed their rage as the one that wielded light like flame laughed in their faces, slinging magic against them as if it was right to do so.

And when __she__ came, they fled.

"There's no end to them!"

Teeth snapped at the air next to Hawke's ear. She spun, slashed, jabbed the air with her fingers to guide the lightning.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll run out of Darkspawn?"

She laughed at the absurdity of it all. Laughed as more lightning burst from her spear and cooked a charging Hurlock. It fell, skidding to a halt at her feet.

"Not __now__ , Hawke! Carver, down and left!"

Something screamed as Carver emptied the last of his ammunition into its body. A spray of hot blood hit the back of Hawke's neck.

 _ _Is this it?__

A blow caught her off guard, she fell to one knee, spear up just in time to block the descent of a mace.

 _ _This can't be it.__

She twisted and struck; the spearhead sunk into a soft target.

 _ _We didn't fucking just have a roadside funeral for this.__

She scrambled to her feet, staggering as a Genlock's head - liberated from its shoulders - smacked into her side.

 _ _Not to die here, not like this.__

She pointed, nothing came. She gasped for air.

 _ _No mana. Fuck you.__ Fuck __you.__

Spear up, around, a butterfly arc that terminated in something's throat.

 _ _We are not going to die in this fucking place. Not like this.__

An explosion of light and fire.

 _ _Fire?! Beth-! No. What is-__

And then she saw.

"Blessed fucking Andraste," she breathed.

It happened like this:

The ash cloud that had covered the highway and all points beyond swirled around them like a dry hurricane. Darkspawn from every direction poured from the blackness, screaming in dumb hate and fury. They fought, desperate, exhausted, certain in nothing more than every blocked attack being a minor delay in Death's schedule. They fought anyway.

And then, the darkness erupted.

It heaved in, and out, like someone blowing a series of smoke rings into an already diaphanous cloud. Then came the heat. Heavy, damp, expanding, exploding onto the road. Flesh charred and sizzled into steam. Darkspawn from all sides shrieked their confused terror. Some fled. Others were caught up, incinerated, rendered into ash to join the ever-blackening cloud.

From the cloud, massive wings stretched high, high into the air, and then with a whoosh were brought down, spinning the smoke and the ash into a swirling storm. Another wingbeat, and the cloud began to dissipate. A third was accompanied by a great streaming jet of flame that melted the asphalt, charring more Darkspawn into nothingness, burning away the lingering cloud.

The great flaming eye of the sun glittered off of black and scarlet scales polished by living magic, set like a million gems into a hide that gleamed like liquid metal. Ivory teeth set beneath eyes birthed in smoldering coals; curved steel claws glinting with wicked intent. Wings that when outstretched covered the entire highway with their translucent shadow.

Nothing remained of any Darkspawn but corpses. All that lived on the road were five ragged refugees… And the Dragon.

It stood, one enormous foreleg resting on the cement road barrier, leaning on it as though ready for a casual conversation.

Hawke stood between it and the others, spear clenched in her hands, back straight, legs braced. The Dragon's massive head tilted, one glowing, sulphurous eye regarded her with a stare that pinned her where she stood.

What happened next she could hardly believe, and would never really be able to describe.

Golden light shivered up from between the Dragon's scales, bathing it in brightness. And then it seemed to fold, collapsing in on itself. The light brightened - blinded - and then resolved itself into a new form, only a few paces away from the spot where Hawke had chosen to make her futile stand. One arm folded on the median wall, head tilted to regard her with one eye. Hawke stared back at the most enchanting woman of indeterminate age she had ever laid eyes on.

She wore dark scarlet armor, studded with silver. A black feathered mantle on her shoulders fluttered in the slight breeze her wings had carried. Yellow-gold eyes gleamed from her finely lined face, under an iron circlet that held her hair - long, silvery white, elaborately styled to mimic the horns that so proudly crowned the Dragon shape she had worn - back and out of the way. Her mouth was curved into a smirk that knew things.

"Well, well," She said, her voice like low thunder, "what have we here?" She cast her eyes about, taking in Hawke, Aveline, Carver, Leandra, Wesley. "It seems as though visitors are arriving in hordes these days."

You know exactly what you have here, Hawke thought, feeling a shiver of intuition crawl down her spine and burrow into her gut. __Hordes. Haha, that's hilarious. You know full fucking well what you have here, don't you. What's your game, Dragon Lady? Why did you save us? Where the__ fuck _ _were you two hours ago?__

Hawke grinned, keeping the anger, the fear, in check. "Nice trick," she replied, relaxing her stance, laying her spear on her shoulder. "Love the armor. Where'd you learn to turn into a Dragon?"

The woman's mouth pulled back into a grin, showing teeth like fine, sharp porcelain. "Perhaps I __am__ a Dragon," she said. She pushed away from the median, striding towards Hawke, circling her. The smile that lingered on her face was a predator's grin; her eyes glinted in the new sunlight. Hawke kept still, enduring the scrutiny. "If so, thank your luck. The smell of burning Darkspawn does little to whet the appetite."

"Ashes don't add much to the taste either, I'd imagine," Hawke replied, keeping her voice level. The woman chuckled, it rolled into the air between them, vibrating in Hawke's bones.

"Quite true. Are you fleeing Darkspawn, child? If so, I would suggest running away from their nest, not towards."

"What, you mean trying to take them down in a wild blaze of glory is a bad plan?" Hawke clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Well damn. Anything better you want to suggest? Running is starting to lose its appeal."

Behind her, Aveline murmured, "Hawke, be careful…"

The woman halted in front of Hawke, pinning her again with the burning, bright gaze. The smile had not left her face. Hawke quietly prayed that the smile was a good thing.

"I spied something most curious down the road," said the woman. She stepped forward until they were nearly nose to nose. The woman was taller by a few inches. It felt like miles. "An ogre, vanquished. Quite thoroughly, in fact. I wondered, 'who could be responsible for such a feat?' Surely not the one left smoldering on the funeral pyre next to it."

Behind them, Leandra let out a soft, helpless noise. Hawke kept her easy grin fixed in place. __I see__ , she thought, staring back at the woman, stamping down on the grieving scream she could feel pushing its way up from behind her heart. __She's trying to freak me out, make me sweat. Okay, fine. I can play that game.__

"What can I say? When you're right, you're right," said Hawke. She lifted an eyebrow. "All this just to satisfy your curiosity?"

"Hm, I wonder," the woman replied. "That curiosity is sated, and you live. For the time being." Then she turned sharply on her heel, putting her back firmly to Hawke, looking out over the wrecked highway. "That should do."

"You can't just leave us here!" Carver exclaimed, taking a step forward, then halting in his tracks as the woman turned her head ever so slightly to pin him with her stare.

"Can I not," She said. It was more than a statement. It was a threat, a promise that such presumption would end in a charred smear on the pavement.

Hawke said, "You could stick around and teach me that neat Dragon trick."

The woman turned, fixing Hawke once again in her sights. For the barest second, she thought she could see something flash in the woman's eyes. Something like the look her mother got just before calling her a cheeky little shit. Hawke's grin widened. __That's right, eyes on me. Don't even think about flaming my brother, and we'll be fine.__

The woman grinned back. "If only being clever were the only requisite skill, hm? You are very bold, girl."

"That's a gentle way of putting it."

Hawke's vision blurred. She blinked. The woman was in front of her again, scant inches away. One gauntleted hand closed around her chin, lifting her face. In the woman's eyes, the world __burned__.

"Shall we call this fate, or chance?"

 _ _Don't sweat. Don't let her see you sweat. Fuck, she is so scary, do not let her see you sweat.__

Hawke stared back, defiant, expectant, waiting. Fucking terrified but that part she kept locked down, deep down with the grief and the anger. The woman's gaze more than her grip kept Hawke rooted to her spot. She could see so much in those eyes, behind her own reflection.

"I like you, girl." The grip eased, so Hawke's chin was caught neatly between the woman's thumb and index finger. "You fight all comers, carving a path through the chaos to shape the world around you." Her voice lowered, so only they could hear what she whispered next. "Death will have to take you sleeping, lest it expect a battle."

Hawke couldn't stop the soft, surprised laugh that escaped her. She said, "Kind of a cold comfort, that."

"It is, isn't it."

Hawke raised her voice from the whisper. "Who are you?"

The woman's smile changed, ever so slightly. It was almost… fond. She said, "An old hag who talks too much."

"She's the Witch of the Wilds," Aveline said, her voice cutting through the very odd atmosphere. "I've heard of her before." The woman let go of Hawke's chin.

"Some have called me that," said the Witch, nodding to Aveline. "Also Flemeth, or __Asha'bellanar__. For now," she glanced at Hawke again, "Flemeth will do just fine."

Hawke, still a little entranced, let out a stuttering laugh. "You're the __Witch of the Wilds__? Did you know there are cartoons about you?"

Flemeth grinned, all teeth and blood and fire in her eyes, "Cute, aren't they? I suppose I should be grateful: it isn't often Apostates such as us are given a favorable limelight."

"Apostates such as us," Hawke parroted, not a little stunned that Flemeth would put them anywhere near the same league as each other. I'm a bug compared to her, and she knows it.

"Yes, the ones smiled upon by fortune." Flemeth's expression sobered slightly. "Perhaps we may even be able to assist one another, caught as we are in this time and place."

"If your assistance includes torching more Darkspawn, I am only too happy to oblige with whatever you need," said Hawke.

Flemeth chuckled. "You're quick to indebt yourself."

Hawke gestured to the ruined highway around them, at the charred husks of the Darkspawn that had been unlucky enough to be caught by Flemeth's fire. "I'm kind of already in debt."

Flemeth threw back her head and laughed. All but Hawke took a step away from her. Wesley stumbled, falling to his knees. Aveline knelt by his side.

"Then, let us enter an accord," Flemeth said. She thrust out an arm: from her armored fingers dangled a pendant hung on a fine, glittering chain. It caught the sunlight like a prism, arresting Hawke's attention, dazzling her eyes. She held out her hand, palm up, and Flemeth lowered the pendant into her grasp. The slight weight sent another stab of pain through her palm, shaking her from the entrancing spell the bauble had briefly cast. It still seemed to glimmer as it lay on the blood-soaked bandage.

"There is a Dalish clan that has taken residence on Sundermount, outside of the city of Kirkwall in the Free Marches," Flemeth said, her voice bright, grin flashing. "Take this to their Keeper, Marethari, and all debts between us will be settled."

Hawke stared at the pendant, then her eyes snapped to meet Flemeth's. "We were heading to Kirkwall already," she said.

"Were you indeed?" Flemeth's eyebrow raised. "What a happy coincidence."

 _ _You knew. Of course you knew. How long have you been watching us?__

"There is another matter, however, that will require our attention before we depart," Flemeth continued. She turned sharply, taking three long strides until she loomed over Aveline and Wesley. Aveline scrambled to her feet as Flemeth approached, putting herself between them.

" _ _No__!" Her voice was sharp, high, panicked. "No, leave him be!"

"I will not touch him," said Flemeth, looking down at them, her expression carefully neutral. "You need not fear my wrath; worse will take him from you before I would choose to act." She stared hard at Aveline, lowing her chin. "But you already knew that."

"No," Aveline snapped, kneeling, hands grasping for her husband. She knelt with him again. "He's fine, Wesley, tell her you're fine!"

He murmured something too soft for Hawke to hear. Aveline gasped out a breath as though she'd been struck. Her mouth formed another No but no sound reached Hawke's ears.

"What - what's wrong with him?" Carver asked. He knelt on Wesley's other side. "Wes, you're still hurt? We have first aid kits, we can-"

"No," Wesley said. His breath rattled as he spoke. "It's… it was the blood, the Darkspawn blood."

"He has been tainted. For some time, it seems," said Flemeth, her voice as clinical and detached as an autopsy surgeon. Hawke drew up even with her, clutching the pendant in her hand.

 _ _Oh, come on, Maker, come on, not Wesley too, he's__ good __, he's a__ good __Templar, you can't take him too.__

"What can we do? Flemeth, what can we do?"

The Witch of the Wilds turned her head just so, gazing sideways at Hawke. Her neutral expression, so cultivated compared to the near-feral grin from before, was a funeral mask. Hawke felt another fist squeeze into her heart. Aveline, hands shaking, wiped blood and ash away from Wesley's face. The veins on his neck had gone black, his skin pale as a corpse under the filth.

"Only a Grey Warden can possibly undo the curse of the taint," Flemeth said.

"Grey Wardens don't exist," Leandra said. She had knelt as well, both hands gripping Carver's arm like a lifeline, staring at Wesley through a fresh fall of tears that had hardly stopped in the last hour. "They're just a myth."

"But that Special Forces guy," Carver said, his voice high and shaking with a distant hope. "He wore Grey, he had a weird badge, maybe…"

"Whether or not they exist," said Flemeth, crossing her arms, "is inconsequential. Any who may still carry that title are far from here." Her gaze fell again on Aveline. "Your man is doomed to a slow death, lest you show him mercy."

"You can't be __serious__!" Hawke cried. At the same time, Carver yelled, "Bull __shit__!"

 _ _We haven't even known him six hours, how can you expect this from us?!__

Aveline was staring at her. She realized, with horror, that Aveline was __looking to her.__

She stepped forward, then knelt at Aveline's side. Carver was still clinging to Wesley's shoulder, as Leandra clung to Carver. Aveline's hands, shaking, clasped her husband's.

 _ _I can't do this for you.__ Another realization, from the dark place, welled up to the surface of her mind. Aveline's eyes locked with hers, and the understanding shared between them and left a cold, fist-sized lump in her chest.

 _ _I can't, because I can't promise I won't feel a little satisfaction from killing a Templar. Even if it's him. Even if it's for you.__

She could not, would not do such a thing. Not to Wesley, who had sung the chant for Bethany. Not to Aveline, who had slapped her back into sanity.

There were no tears in Aveline's eyes when she took the service knife from Wesley's belt. There were no tears as they leaned close, foreheads touching, and said goodbye, hands clasped tight, together, around the hilt.

Aveline kissed his forehead, the deathly fever already cooling from his skin, then folded his arms over his chest and laid him down. She took the soot-blackened badge from his chest to hold over her heart.

She stood, whispering to herself, "For you are the fire and the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give."

"I… I'll get..." Carver said, standing shakily, drawing Leandra up with him, "I'll get kindling for the pyre…"

"There will be no need," said Flemeth. They all turned to her, staring as one into her regal, impassive face. "I shall do him this honor."

She gestured, they stepped back. The flame that curled around Wesley obscured him immediately in golden, almost holy light.

Hawke mutely pressed her knuckles against Aveline's. Their fingers brushed together, wrists turned, palms met. The wound on Hawke's palm split, spilling fresh warm blood into the bandages as Aveline gripped Hawke's hand tightly as a frightened child, staring into the flames, tears marking pale tracks through the ashes on her cheeks.


	4. Chapter 1 - Exodus

**Interlude 1**

" _You cannot be serious."_

 _She leans forward, placing her hands on the table. "I swear to you, Tethras, if you tell me she rode to Kirkwall on the back of a dragon-"_

 _He laughs, shaking his head. "No, no. But it does sound a lot better than 'And then the Champion drove to Gwaren in a hatchback.'"_

" _What?"_

" _A hatchback. You know, the kind of car a Soccer Mom drives."_

" _I_ know _what a hatchback is, Tethras." She scowls, taking her seat again with a sigh. "I cannot argue that it does sound less… interesting than the tale you presented in your book."_

" _I know, I like my version better. But the truth of it is, the Witch pointed out a clear path and a car with plenty of gas, then sent them on their way."_

" _It just seems so… simple."_

" _After everything else they went through up to that point, simple probably felt like a blessing."_

 _They are silent for a time. He sips from a glass of water. She drums her fingers on the tabletop, regarding him carefully. "The book never mentioned a sister," she says eventually._

" _Correct."_

" _Is there a reason for this?"_

 _He spreads his hands, grinning, but then he seems to reconsider. The grin fades. He sets his hands on the table. "It's a hard death to make into a story, Seeker. Wesley is there because an Apostate Mage mourning the death of a Templar has a romantic hero flavor. Not to mention Aveline would have had me by the balls if I didn't at least pay homage to him."_

 _She raises an eyebrow. "And the Champion?"_

" _We talked about it. Bethany didn't make it to the final draft at her request."_

" _But why? Why not acknowledge it? Certainly it would have made her brother's actions less… well, slightly more understandable."_

 _He goes silent. She waits._

" _I'm going to remind you that you said that, Seeker," he says, quietly. "For now let's say it was because Bethany dying didn't directly affect the events that led up to you questioning me here."_

" _Why will you not tell me the truth?"_

" _We'll get to that truth in good time." He then puts on a brittle smile, clapping his hands together. "So, ready for more?"_

 _She sighs. "I suppose we should continue."_

 **Chapter one: Exodus**

 **1**

"Jennifer."

Hawke paused halfway to taking a bite of jerky, and looked sideways to Aveline. Beside them, Carver snorted to cover a laugh. "What?"

"Not Jennifer, then," Aveline sighed. "What about, Jessica?"

Hawke stared at her, then leaned to look at Carver, who was covering his face with a hand, grinning. She looked back to Aveline. "Who the fuck is Jessica?"

"Well, not _you_ , clearly," said Aveline. she poured a handful of trail mix into her palm, carefully picking out and setting aside the cashews.

"Not… _what?_ "

The three of them sat abreast on Gwaren's meager seawall, looking out over the choppy waves of the Frozen Seas. It had taken two days of hard driving to reach Gwaren using the directions Flemeth had provided. They'd gone through Southreach and into the Brecillan forest, stopping to sleep in abandoned roadside motels, long left behind by people who had been wise enough to run far ahead of the Blight. Finally, they'd made it to Gwaren… or specifically, the sign for Gwaren's city limits, where the car Flemeth had pointed them to had sputtered and died and wouldn't be started again. Then they had walked the long, silent miles to the city proper, where the Army had commandeered warehouses for Emergency relief, by the city Wharf. In that heap, the last straggling refugees seeking passage out of Ferelden were processed before being allowed to leave for parts unknown on the ships that came and went weekly, providing meager relief to the town's strained resources.

Aveline had bullied her way to the Officer In Charge, showing her credentials to secure them something with a passing resemblance to acceptable lodging while Leandra had made calls ahead to Kirkwall. So far, she'd had no luck contacting her brother, limited as she was to pay phones and the occasional lobby desk telephone.

The next ferry out would arrive tomorrow, and after that would be a long, cramped trip by boat up the coast to Kirkwall. All they could do now was wait, and try to find a way to amuse themselves.

"Not a Jessica," Aveline sighed. She looked sideways at Hawke.

"Aveline, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?" Hawke stared at the two of them, completely mystified. From Aveline's other side, Carver threw back his head and barked out a laugh. "What is _with_ you two?"

Carver regained his composure long enough to say, "She's trying to guess your _name_ , idiot!"

Hawke blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "I… my… _Jessica?_ Do I _look_ like a Jessica?"

Aveline studied Hawke's face for a moment. "You could be a Jessica," she said.

"I'm the least Jessica person I have ever met," said Hawke.

"That sounds like something a Jessica would say," said Aveline.

Carver said, "You should've heard her first guess; she was pretty close."

Hawke squinted at the two of them. "What _was_ the first guess?"

"Jezebel," Aveline and Carver said together. Hawke leaned away from them, put on a dramatic frown, and laid a hand over her heart.

"Wow, Aveline, and here I thought we were friends."

"We _are_ friends, Hawke."

"Friends that make cruel and completely unjust judgments on each others character by way of malicious acts of misnaming?"

"Seems to be looking that way, I'm afraid," Aveline said, giving Hawke a little sideways smile. There hadn't been many smiles on Aveline's face thus far, but Hawke was starting to like the sight of them. She grinned back, nudging Aveline with an elbow.

" _Jezebel_. That's cute, though. People would probably take me seriously. Jezebel was the one in the Chant with the third tit, right?" Hawke looked down at her chest contemplatively. Carver made an uncomfortable noise; she smiled.

"Do people not take your real name seriously? Considering taking you seriously at face value is a mistake." Aveline asked innocently, popping a handful of trail mix in her mouth. Hawke wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

"No, they don't. And no, you're not getting it out of me that easily."

"Carver said it started with a hard 'j' sound or… maybe a 'g,'" Aveline mused, kicking her heels against the wall.

"I'll give you another hint," said Carver, taking the abandoned cashews from Aveline's little pile. "Mom wanted her to be a ballerina."

Aveline let out a braying laugh, spilling the remains of her trail mix. Hawke dodged the spray, but dropped her jerky in the process. She whined as it tumbled down the seawall to the beach. Further down the strip, a stray dog that had been eying them saw the sudden windfall and made for the jerky.

"Aw, Aveline, my lunch," said Hawke, gesturing sadly at the dog, who was going to town on the dropped wrapper.

"You have more," said Aveline, still recovering from the sudden laughter. "A _ballerina._ Did you rebel on purpose, Hawke?"

Hawke made a snide little noise and reached into her bag for another stick of jerky. She undid the wrapper and snapped it in half, dropping the larger portion down to the dog. The dog - a Mabari, collarless and underfed - made a surprised noise and snapped up the second unexpected treat, stub of a tail wagging so hard its hindquarters started shaking.

"Holy shit, look at him go," Hawke said, breaking her half of the jerky into another half, then dropping the portion down. "What a good pooch."

The three of them watched the dog work on its snack in companionable silence for a few moments. Hawke threw down another piece of jerky.

Suddenly, as if realizing something, Carver said, "No."

"Such sudden and unprompted negativity," said Hawke, rummaging in her bag for more food.

"I say again: _No,_ " Carver leaned, reaching around Aveline to try and snatch the bag away from Hawke.

"What? I'm just providing a little charity to a distressed neighbor!" Hawke pulled the bag out of her brother's reach, teeth flashing in a wicked grin. She raised her voice, leaning a little in the dog's direction. "Of course, it would be easier to provide for our quadrupedal companion if he were to walk up here and sit with us. That's _entirely_ his own choice, though."

The dog, after a second of contemplation, got up and began to trot towards the squat stairway that led up the beach to the top of the sea wall. Carver groaned.

"Hawke," said Aveline, her voice carefully level, "I hope you aren't planning on some kind of... impromptu adoption."

"Of _course_ not, Aveline," said Hawke. She pulled more jerky and half of a slightly stale ham sandwich from her bag, setting them in her lap. She looked to the approaching dog, and patted the wall next to her for the dog to sit. When the dog was settled, Hawke held out the sandwich. The dog made it disappear in two bites. "Good lad," said Hawke. "Sorry it was a bit stale." The dog made an unconcerned noise. Aveline muttered a curse under her breath.

" _Hawke..."_

" _What?_ I am simply being kind to a fellow refugee! It doesn't have to mean anything, Aveline. I'm _just being nice._ "

"I do not believe you in the slightest," said Aveline, giving Hawke a disapproving squint that – if the dog hadn't chosen that exact moment to lay its head in Hawke's lap – may have shaken Hawke's resolve. Instead, she laid a hand atop the dog's head and gave the world at large a wholly unapologetic smile.

"What's your name, pal?" Hawke asked the dog, who let out a soft woof in response. She nodded solemnly. "Ah, yes, you can't tell me. Good point. How does 'Redd' sound? Two 'd's, for respectability's sake."

The dog's tongue lolled out in a doggy grin, appearing to accept the new moniker.

"Hawke, for goodness sake!" Aveline exclaimed. "You can't just adopt a random dog!"

"I'm just asking his _name_ , Aveline! He's a Mabari, we can't just call him 'Dog,' that's _terribly_ rude."

"Just deciding to adopt a damn dog when we don't even have a _house_ is rude, sis," Carver snapped.

"You two sure are jumping to conclusions."

"Considering the conclusion is within leaping distance," said Aveline, "you can imagine how easy it is for us to do so."

"This lack of trust in my intentions is unprecedented," Hawke sniffed, scratching behind Redd's ears. Almost immediately it became apparent that the poor thing had fleas, even in this cold. Hawke pulled a face while she picked a fat flea from the dog's fur, crushing it between her thumbnails. "Redd, you need a bath, my friend."

"And now you're gonna _bathe the dog_ what the fuck is wrong w-" Carver began, but Hawke cut him off, throwing up her hands with an exaggerated sigh.

"I am _just saying_ so because he does, in fact, need a bath! Did I volunteer myself? Did I say _I_ would be the one to bathe him? Did I, in fact, make any mention of acting in the capacity as Master of Baths? No, Carver, I did no such thing. I am _simply_ making polite conversation, with this very fine and gentlemanly dog, who happens to also be on the run from a postmodern mini-apocalypse. Is that okay with you? Am I allowed to make friends?"

Carver glared at her, pointing to the last remaining jerky snack, which Hawke was in the process of unwrapping and feeding to Redd. "You're _feeding him_ like you plan on _keeping him_."

"The Chant of Light teaches us all to respect our neighbors and be charitable," Hawke said, and then had to dodge as Carver leaned around Aveline to chuck a fistful of dirty sand at her. "You need to _repent_ for your uncharitable ways, brother!"

"You need to repent for being a fucking nutcase," Carver grumbled, but the fight seemed to have drained from him already. He sighed, leaning back until he was flat on the ground, legs dangling over the edge of the wall. "You can't keep the dog."

Hawke grinned, picking another flea, and crushed it. "You can't tell me what to do."

 **2**

There _had_ been a flea bath. Redd had patiently allowed Hawke to scrub him down with dish soap and tepid water out back of the crumbling warehouse that served as a makeshift Refugee Camp. After an hour of work, Redd's fur had a shine just healthy-looking enough to offset the way his ribcage jutted out from under his skin. When confronted by Carver, Hawke had simply shrugged and said if he was going to accuse her of having ulterior motives, she might as well live up to his expectations. He'd upended the tub of dirty water on her and stomped off, her laughter nipping his heels as he went.

Introducing the dog to her mother had gone pretty much exactly as she'd expected; lots of bluster and refusal, until she pointed out that, being a Mabari, Redd was consciously aware of the situation. It was an underhanded tactic, and she knew she was playing to each one of her mother's weaknesses with that argument, but it had won, and Redd had been allowed to stay on a trial basis. When she'd left the little corner they'd claimed to go have a smoke, Redd had settled at Leandra's feet, and Hawke was sure she'd just caught a glimpse of her mother reaching down to pat the dog's head. She had quietly congratulated herself for a job well done, then made her way back to the sea wall.

It was quiet now, not that there had been any real bustle along the beach during the day. As she sat she tried to imagine what Gwaren must have been like before the locals had fled and the refugees had begun to pile up. There wasn't much to imagine, really. The Frozen Seas weren't exactly accommodating to tourism even during the hottest Fereldan summers, which weren't very hot to begin with. The fishing here was clearly good, or good enough that a few boats still trudged along the coast to bring their takes to the mostly empty market that opened a few hours each morning. There was a boardwalk not too far to her left, where a rusting Ferris wheel – a three-story refurbished road-carnival orphan – turned slowly in the ocean wind, groaning softly to itself as the sun sank below the western horizon. In the opposite direction, a small airfield now housed military planes and choppers exclusively; the few small planes for commercial flight had taken off as soon as the Blight hit and hadn't come back.

There was so little left in Gwaren. Most of the shops and houses were boarded up, but for a handful of minor business and a single Big Box grocery store along the main street. Some of the houses closer to the wharf were now filled with squatting refugees, and displaced soldiers waiting to be shuffled back into the rank and file. There would be no second push for Ostagar; news reports had declared it lost, with Lothering soon to follow. Now all the troops had todo was wait for was directions to where they would stand as a living wall against the blight as it oozed from the deep roads to all corners of the map.

Hawke lit a clove for herself and settled once more on the sea wall, dangling her feet. Stars slowly picked their places in the creeping darkness above the water. They kept their silence, and she hers, until the precise, even beat of Aveline's footfalls reached her ears. Hawke scooted to allow Aveline room to sit. For a few moments, they kept the silence between them, looking out over the dark waves under the darkening sky.

"Nevarra's announced they're closing their borders to refugees," Aveline said, her voice so level and professional that Hawke could hardly tell that Aveline was clenching her teeth. "Antiva and Rivain can't be that far behind. Most of the Free Marches have declared themselves closed now, as well." She sighed. "There are just too many people fleeing."

Hawke took a drag from the clove, exhaling slowly as she processed this. Then she gave Aveline a thin smile. "There's always Tevinter."

"I don't think any of us have the personality type to be a slave," Aveline said darkly, crossing her arms. Her back was straight as a rod, chin up, jaw clenched. "Kirkwall hasn't made an announcement, yet. Ostwick is still open to refugees, and Starkhaven has announced they'll take anyone, no questions."

"Second thoughts about Kirkwall?"

"Third and fourth thoughts as well," said Aveline, shaking her head. "I've never been this unsure about anything in my life."

"Well, it's not exactly an ideal situation to be in," Hawke began, but Aveline cut her off.

"It's not just about the situation. There's... well. There's _you_ , for starters."

"Me?"

Aveline went quiet. Her chin had dropped, and when Hawke glanced over, Aveline made no effort to make eye contact. The silence that stretched between them lasted long minutes before Aveline finally spoke again.

"Why did you pull that stunt with the dog, Hawke? Surely you know better than to just... It's... _Maker_ , Hawke, we're running from _demons_ and you stopped to get a _pet?_ Why?!"

Hawke looked at the glowing end of her clove, thinking, as she did, about the terrifying stretch of miles between here and the slowly receding possibility of safety. There was no guarantee they'd be able to stay in Kirkwall even if they made it there safely; Leandra still had had no luck in contacting her errant brother, and knew of no one else she could call for help. Hawke had already put the last of the money they could spare into buying them passage on the next ferry, but after that, there was no planning she could do that wasn't desperate improvisation. Ahead of them there lay only dreaded uncertainty, and behind...

"It's not just for the dog's sake, or mine," she said, tapping the ash from her clove before taking another contemplative drag. "I have a feeling that, wherever we go from here, there's going to be a lot of scrapping for whatever we need. Mom can't fight; Carver and I can't be there to watch her all the time. Even the dumbest Mabari is smart as hell; Redd seems to be on the more intelligent side of the spectrum. He knows he'll be fed and well taken care of if he takes care of us."

"So you got him for security? To watch your mother?"

"In part, yeah. Not to mention, after everything that's happened, they need someone around for comfort. What better than a big, friendly dog?"

Another pause. Aveline said, "What about you, Hawke?"

"Ah, I'm fine, I can deal."

"That's not what I mean. Why not give them comfort yourself?"

"They don't want me," Hawke said, the words flying out before she could stop herself. Aveline took a breath to reply, but Hawke held up a hand to stop her. "I don't mean that like how it sounds," she lied, "I mean that I'm absolutely shit at giving comfort to people. I never know what to say and almost always end up trying to joke the situation away, and that makes it _worse_. Trust me, the dog is better. He's got a genetic predisposition towards being comforting."

"He also has a genetic predisposition towards taking off a man's limb with a single bite," Aveline said pointedly.

"He's a security blanket with a built in defense system. You can't buy anything better at the supermarket, trust me."

Aveline seemed to accept the explanation, letting out a slow, unhappy sigh. "I suppose that's not an entirely unreasonable way to look at things," she said finally. Hawke gave her a lopsided smile.

"You must think I'm an idiot."

Aveline shook her head. "No, I don't think you're an idiot. Probably about as crazy as a single person can be while still functioning, and frightfully manipulative, but you certainly aren't stupid."

"That's fair," said Hawke. She took a final drag from the clove, spending the last of it before she crushed out the cherry, flicking the butt away. As she exhaled, she looked up to the sky, and made a decision.

"Giselle," she said. It came out softer than she'd intended, more shy that she'd have liked, almost lost under the surf and the groans of the distant Ferris wheel.

"What?"

"Maker never makes things easy," Hawke muttered before declaring, "My name is Giselle. Giselle Marian Hawke."

Aveline turned to stare at her, peering at Hawke's face with such scrutiny she felt like Aveline's eyes were literally peeling away layers of her skin. Hawke smiled, sheepishly.

" _Giselle Marian Hawke,_ " Aveline repeated, her face breaking into a mystified grin. "Is your real given name?"

"Yeah, don't wear it out or anything," Hawke muttered. She rubbed the back of her neck, looking away and hoping Aveline wouldn't ask the usual follow up question of-

"So, do you actually dance, or does your mother just really love ballet?"

Hawke sighed; her shoulders sagged. Then she pushed herself up, standing next to Aveline on the sea wall, raised up on her toes, and performed a simple, though well-executed, pirouette. She ended with a deep bow that was only slightly wobbly. "I took dance for about ten years, usually at knifepoint with mom guarding the door, in case I tried to escape," she said, folding back down to sit. Aveline gave her a polite round of applause.

"That's not a skill to be ashamed of, Hawke," said Aveline, grinning. "Not exactly one I'd have _expected_ , but certainly not shameful."

"I'm not really ashamed of it or anything, it's just... Not really me." She swung her feet out, looking at her boots. The black leather had been cracked, warped, and stained from years of hard use; the laces were mismatched and the soles had been worn thin, though not yet thin enough that they were unwearable. "Slippers just don't fit."

"But boots do," said Aveline. Hawke nodded, and once again they settled into companionable silence. After a few moments Aveline asked, "What did you do before you left Lothering?"

Hawke looked at her sideways, and after a moment forced a smile. "Nah, I already let you have one secret for free," she said. She pushed herself up to stand again, then held out her hand. Aveline took it; Hawke pulled her to her feet.

"Another mystery for another night?" Aveline asked, smiling in a way that was, perhaps, a little more friendly than the smiles from before.

"You already unlocked my tragic history of dance, Aveline," said Hawke. "If I don't have any other secrets for you to poke at, you might get bored and run off, and then what will I do?"

"Cheeky," Aveline sighed. She turned towards the warehouse where they'd staked their little claim. "Coming back in?"

Hawke shook her head. "No, I think I'll walk around a bit more. Give mom some more time to consider forgiving me for the dog."

Aveline nodded, raised a hand in farewell, and then headed towards the warehouse. Then she stopped, turning just enough to look at Hawke over her shoulder.

"...He's a good dog, Hawke. Your choices are questionable, but in that, you chose well." Then she turned on her heel and marched back towards civilization, her silhouette vanishing into the long, dark shadows that led down the wharf.

Hawke watched her go, and kept watching long after Aveline had disappeared, waiting for the heavy, excited flutter behind her heart to calm down. She hadn't expected the sensation, the weird delight at having earned approval from Aveline, but it was there, buoying up above the swampy cocktail of negative emotion that had seeped its way through the inside of her until she'd felt like she was all but drowning.

She knew, logically, that hanging any hope on Aveline staying with them after they reached Kirkwall was stupid bordering on senseless. Something that could have been the start of a friendship was forming, shakily, out of the circumstances that had forced them together, but Hawke doubted it would last. Fire-forged friendships were rarely sustainable, she knew, and eventually would flicker and die just as it had sparked, and Aveline would move on. Jokes aside, secrets or no, Aveline was smart enough to not stay involved with an Apostate.

Hawke turned towards the boardwalk, empty and still under the cloud-cluttered starlight. It wasn't much of a boardwalk; just a handful of boarded up restaurants, stores, and an arcade huddled together under the Ferris wheel's skeletal shadow. A single spotlight kept the place from being wholly dark. The wheel turned slowly in the coastal wind; next to it Hawke could see the charred ruins of a carousel that had been left to rot. Some kind of electrical fire had melted the central pavilion, scattering the plastic molded horses and other fantastic beasts. They tilted drunkenly, impaled on their twisting poles; their galloping shadows stretched across the sand to meet her, desperate to escape the ruin of the old ride.

 _I can relate,_ she thought, stepping up the boardwalk ramp to the Ferris wheel. She climbed over the waist-high fence that separated the ride from the boardwalk proper, then stepped up to the boarding platform. She took a moment to check that her bootlaces were tied tightly, then flexed her injured hand. Aveline had insisted she let an army medic look at the wound on her palm, now redressed properly. It was healing, though not quickly.

"This is probably a bad idea," she said aloud, resting one hand on the wheel's scaffolding. It was definitely a bad idea, but no response came out of the darkness. There was no gentle voice to say 'no.'

Hawke hauled herself up the wheel, climbing hand over hand, ignoring the bright stab of pain that came whenever she put pressure on her wounded hand. By the time she reached the wheel's slowly tilting apex she had sweated through her shirt and her jacket was starting to feel stifling and heavy. Her hand burned with pain; the blood pounded in her ears.

She stood, one arm hooked around a spoke, feet planted in the junction where the scaffolding gave way to a passenger car. Behind and below her the black ocean churned; ahead of her the few flickering lights of the town sketched a somber outline against the distant hills leading inland. She watched as the headlights of a small caravan of army vehicles as they patrolled along the city limits, scanning the roads for survivors or darkspawn.

The wheel tilted slowly; she readjusted herself to stay at its apex, sinking down to fold herself in the cats cradle of iron bars. She curled her uninjured hand around her wounded palm, pressing her thumb against the thick pad of bandages. The pain was a constant throb now, a low and comforting buzz that sharpened the fading edges of the world so she could think through the painful parts of her that didn't – that _couldn't_ – bleed.

"It was exactly what it sounded like," she confessed. All the childish, terrified pain of her earlier words melted down as she massaged pain into her hand. "They _don't_ want me. They want you, and you aren't here to help them. All they have is me, and I'm not enough."

 _How could you let her run off like that?!_

Maker, _how_? She was better than this, wasn't she? Faster? Stronger? Leandra had screamed the accusations at her once the shock had eroded down to blind, angry grief, and the rage stormed in, demanding to know why the fate had favored one daughter over the other...

If she closed her eyes, she could just imagine Bethany standing under the wheel, overcome by the galloping shadows of the dead carousel, looking up at her with that worried face, ready to nag Hawke back down from her perch to where it was safe. She kept her eyes closed, squeezing them shut against a flood of tears, willing the specter of her sister away. "I can't do what you can," she muttered, squeezing her hands into fists. "I can't heal anything. I can't _help_ , I can't."

 _"I can't believe you!_ " Bethany, laughing, arms around her shoulders, her voice whispering from the fade, caught on the thorns of Hawke's memories like scraps of cloth on barbed wire, " _Come on, Ellie, all you do is fight and break things and tease people!"_

"That's all I'm good at," Hawke said, a bitter laugh bubbling up behind the tears. Then Bethany would cluck at her and call her all kinds of nice words for stupid, tell her how wrong she was, that for everything she broke she would always build something better in its place.

But there was no Bethany to tell her that now, no tether of her sister's arms to ground her.

There was just the darkness, the wheel, and the cold, empty moan of the wind as the wheel turned, slowly bringing her back to earth.

 **3**

Hawke awoke to an unfamiliar wet sensation on her face, and the unpleasant smell of dog breath greeting her nose. She groaned, tried to throw a hand over her face, but was intercepted by the slimy wetness of an overenthusiastic tongue, attached to an overenthusiastic dog, which was overenthusiastically trying to wake her up from sleep that she desperately wanted to not be woken up from.

"Why are you trying to make me regret picking you up," she grumbled, turning her face into her thin pillow, moving her head around in some kind of effort to wipe off the slobber. Redd let out a soft 'boof' and stuck his nose up against her ear. Hawke sighed. "What time is it?"

"Wuff," said the dog.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Hawke.

 _"Bwoof_ "

"I _just_ went to sleep." She cracked open an eye, peering at Redd, whose tongue lolled out, accompanied by a cloud of dogbreath that made Hawke sit straight up in her cot. " _However_ you make an excellent point and I should probably get packed and ready to go." She passed a hand over her face, then winced as a shot of unexpected pain lanced up her arm. She glared at her palm, flexing her fingers to ease the sting. A bag - _her_ bag – was dropped suddenly on the cot beside her. She jumped, guiltily shoving her hand under her pillow, then turned to grin over her shoulder at Carver.

"Baby brother! Good morning,"

Carver gave her an exasperated look. From his face he had probably slept about as well as she had done, which wasn't very, though he'd certainly done so longer. His hair was a cowlick mess – or rather, _dog_ lick mess – and the dark circles under his eyes were far more pronounced that she liked. But he looked alert, at least, and that was something.

"Mom and Aveline are waiting at the dock; the ferry's gonna start boarding soon," he said, shouldering his own bag. "You're packed; you're welcome."

"Thanks," she said, but he had already turned and was heading to the door, passing between rows of empty cots. She looked sideways at Redd, and received a happy dog smile in response. "There are no morning people in this family," she said sternly, sliding her arms through her pack's straps. She rolled off the cot, shoved her feet into her boots, and beckoned for Redd to follow her out of the warehouse.

The Docks were crowded by the time Hawke and Redd managed to catch up with with the others. Aveline waved from where she stood next to another soldier, who was in the process of examining Leandra's ID, and the tickets.

"You got in late," Aveline said as Hawke approached. Hawke shoved a hand into her pocket and pulled out her ID, handing it to the waiting soldier, who compared it to the ticket Leandra held out.

"Couldn't sleep, decided to walk around a bit," Hawke lied, taking her ID back after the soldier gave her the clear.

"You've hardly slept since-" Aveline began, but was cut off as the Ferry's foghorn blasted out a single long, droning note. The soldier that had processed their identification stood up, pulled a bullhorn from his hip, and began to announce boarding order. Aveline grimaced, shoulders squared, and gave Hawke a 'we are not done' look before she turned to take her place in line.

The Ferry, emblazoned with the name ' _BADGER'_ , was not meant for the work it had been doing the last few months. A 410-foot carferry that spent most of its time tooling along the coast at about 18 miles per hour had no business pushing any further out to sea, and that hard use had begun to show heavily on the ship's hull. Hawke had nabbed an information pamphlet when she'd bought their tickets, and now that she saw the thing... well, she didn't necessarily feel as though she'd been _lied_ to, but the picture on the pamphlet had clearly been taken sometime at least two decades before she'd been born.

The pamphlet, which she pulled out of her back pocket to consult again, boasted the ferry's engines and propellers as triumphs of engineering, and made sure to mention the 40 staterooms, the fine dining facilities, and Various Entertainment Areas, including a TV room and an arcade. Walking up the grided iron stairs from the carport to the passenger areas, however, provided a slightly different vista than the retrofaded photographs advertised. The ship had been worn heavily by the choppy waters of the Waking Sea, and had clearly lost a lot of the kitchy glitz that the pamphlet had promised. While it could hold a complement of about 60 crewmen on top of 600 passengers at full capacity; there seemed to be few crewmembers present who weren't strictly there to keep the thing running. About a hundred refugees and a handful of cars piled on top of that did nothing to offset the feeling of abandonment about the place. If she'd been feeling charitable, Hawke would have called the ship quirky in a fun, run down sort of way. Since she wasn't, the old thing simply seemed sad, broken-down, and ripe for scuttling.

"We'll be fine," she said to no one in particular. Next to her, Redd gave a snort that sounded almost like dogspeak for 'of course we will.' Hawke smiled and patted the dog's head, giving him a thorough scratch behind the ears as they were sorted and shuffled with the rest of the refugees. It would be a long trip, on this moldering boat. But they would be fine.

They would have to be.

 **4**

Hawke stood at the _Badger's_ bow, arms crossed and feet braced shoulder width apart. Ahead of her, jet cliffs lay low on the horizon, crowned by steel and glass that glittered harshly in the early morning light.

She'd heard people call Kirkwall 'The White City of Chains.' From here it looked like a diamond on black velvet, cold and beautiful and anything but inviting, but after two weeks caught in either the numbing cold of the Frozen Seas or the bucking chaos of the Waking Sea, the thought of dirt under her feet brought Hawke close to tears of relief. It was _land,_ solid land, only an hour away.

"I never thought I'd see those cliffs again," came a murmur from behind her. Hawke tilted her head, uncrossing her arms to put one around her mother's shoulder as Leandra approached. The cold breeze whipped over the deck, spraying them with salt water, carrying the sound of distant, rattling chains. Leandra shivered; Hawke squeezed her close. "I still can't reach Gamlen."

The ship's crew had been as accommodating as they could be, given the circumstances, and every day Leandra used the ship's satellite phone to attempt a connection with her brother. Leandra's growing desperation was by now almost as suffocating as it was contagious. Hawke had tried and failed to keep Leandra's spirits up; by now only Redd could stand to be in her company for any amount of time. Carver and Hawke had found renewed kinship in finding new and interesting ways to keep Leandra's mind occupied, and Aveline had been unbelievably supportive of all three of them. Now, however, there were no more distractions. Only the great city looming in the distance.

"I'll figure something out," said Hawke. In a city like Kirkwall, someone like her could certainly find a way to survive, if nothing else. She'd survived in Redcliff, she would do so here, even carrying her family along with. Leandra made a soft noise – whether of disbelief or hope Hawke couldn't quite tell.

 _It doesn't matter. I'll figure something out, or I'll damn well die trying._

 _ **5**_

 _If there is a less welcoming place in the world, take me there, because Maker, I won't believe it until I see it._

Kirkwall loomed. The diamond in velvet simile Hawke had indulged in earlier had proven a nasty, mean-spirited lie hiding a vicious truth that grinned down at her from the great glass and steel towers that crowned the black cliffs now closing in around them. If she craned her neck up to look, she could see the beautiful villas and spires of Kirkwall's Hightown district, crouching on the cliffs above the docks like gilded vultures. The sheer cliff faces were pockmarked all the way down with gaps that belched pale, greenish smoke that hovered like a shroud over the docks, obscuring a sprawling mess of buildings that stretched along the coastline. That, Leandra had said, making no effort to hide her distaste, was Lowtown, now bigger and presumably much fuller than when she'd left Kirkwall decades earlier. Hawke agreed that the place wouldn't suffer much from being firebombed right off the map, even the little bits she could see, but the bleak tumble of ramshackle buildings was nothing compared to the Gallows.

Hawke didn't succumb easily to nausea, but as soon as the great tower had come into view she'd had to fight the urge to vomit, out if spite if not actual illness. If Hightown was a vulture, _this_ was the beast it scavenged from.

First were the chains. The massive iron links anchored the Gallows into the Waking Sea, reaching like greedy talons for the ships that pushed single-file through the narrow strip of water that led to the Docks. Then, the hunched, weeping statues of tormented slaves; their massive shoulders bent in endless, futile sorrow. A testament to the city's illustrious history, and the efforts of whatever conscienceless creature had decided that preserving the ancient statues instead of pitching them into the sea was a sound model for public beautification. Behind them, the ancient visages of Tevene Gods or Slavers or both leered down, greedily welcoming all who would be crushed under their marble heels.

Hawke suppressed the urge to shiver as the boat passed through the first gate and into Gallows. You didn't have to be a mage to feel the oppressive weight of Templar scrutiny in a place like this. Being a mage simply made it easier to be terrified of it.

They'd spent hours – long, frustrating hours – waiting at the docks to hear the all-clear to disembark. The call had come, and the Refugees had been shuffled from the boat to a low Gallows courtyard that had been cordoned off with pylons and rent-a-fences. Tired looking men and women in the uniform of Kirkwall's City Guard ushered refugees through the gauntlet of fences and identification checkpoints, only to lead them out again into the courtyard, "For Processing." Groups of people filtered through the place at a steady clip, only to be poured out again at the starting point, no closer to Kirkwall than before.

"This is ridiculous," Aveline muttered, pacing alongside one of the fences. "Are they even letting _anyone_ in?"

"Doesn't look like it," answered Carver, who had taken up a shady spot under a weeping slave statue. "Why don't you ask the guy in charge?" The comment was clearly meant to be snide, but Aveline ignored the barb. She squared up her shoulders, then looked over at Hawke. Hawke shrugged.

"It couldn't hurt, actually. Redd, keep an eye on Carver," she added, smirking as her brother scrambled to his feet to follow.

"I don't need the _dog_ to babysit me!" Carver snapped, shoving ahead of them. Redd followed at a more somber pace. Leandra sighed at her children and fell in, with Aveline and Hawke taking the rear.

A big man with a sour face in a rumpled Guard uniform seemed to be the one directing the flow of foot traffic through the gates to the city proper. Very few were being allowed through, and all of them had the look of native Kirkwallers home on business, complete with – if she wasn't guessing wrong – what looked like Citizenship Badges. As they approached, the guy sneered, and pointed a finger directly in Hawke's face. "You get back with the rest of your lot, Fereldan," he began, but Hawke sidestepped his finger and stepped up until they were nearly nose to nose. The Guardsman swallowed what he was about to say, gaping at her in shock. He clearly wasn't the kind of man used to having someone get in his face, much less a scrawny-looking refugee woman.

"Where's your boss?" Hawke demanded. He flapped his mouth and she shoved forward, forcing him to take a step back. "Well?"

"Y-you can't just-" He began, then yelped when Hawke took another hard step forward. He stumbled, this time his back hit a fence.

"I _am_ just. You point me to the Guy In Charge, and I'll get out of your face. You do _not_ want to fight me."

The Guardsman gawked at her, but had the presence of mind enough to let the madwoman in front of him be someone else's problem. He redirected his finger towards a staircase leading to an upper balcony. "You want the man in charge, you talk to Captain Ewald," he snarled. "Now get out of my face."

"Gladly," said Hawke, then turned on her heel, motioning to the others to follow. The Guardsman muttered something under his breath, but did nothing else to impede them, instead snapping insults at another Guardsman further down the fence.

Aveline drew up alongside Hawke as she took the stairs. "Hawke, you could have just asked him," she began. Hawke scoffed.

"It took you an hour with that Soldier back in Gwaren, and that was with someone who had a reason to respect you. I'm not fucking around with guys like that just to get a simple answer."

Aveline made a disapproving noise, but said nothing else, instead squaring her shoulders once again, before letting Hawke take the lead.

It was evident that they weren't the only ones with designs on the Guy In Charge fairly quickly. A handful of dirty, angry looking men had gathered in the upper balcony and were currently crowding a tall Guardsman in a Captain's uniform.

"Let us through, you son of a bitch! We're not staying in this pit!" Shouted one of the lead men. Hawke pulled up short, motioning to the others to do the same.

"Then get back on your ship and leave," the Captain sighed, clearly having been through this exchange before. "There's no more room in Kirkwall for refugees."

"The fuckin ship's already gone!" Another man snapped. "We already paid to come _here_!"

The Captain rolled his eyes. "If you do not have the means to leave the city, you are welcome to stay in the Gallows until we have word of transport back to Ferelden or wherever the hell else. Kirkwall is _full_ _._ There is _no more room._ _"_

"You've been letting some people in," Hawke cut in, coming up behind the group. Aveline and Carver followed close on her heels. "What about people here on business? Or visiting family?"

There was a second of icy silence as the Captain turned his gaze on her. He didn't sneer, but she could practically feel how hard he wanted to. "If anyone has _business_ in the city that would be coming in through here, they would already have the necessary Passage Visa to do so. And if you're telling me you have _family_ in the city, you'd better be ending that statement with 'and they're right over there waiting for us.'"

"Unless a guy named Gamlen Amell suddenly decided to pop out of the ether, that's going to be a no," said Hawke. Much to her surprise, there was a spark of recognition on the Captain's face.

"Gamlen Amell?"

Hawke gestured to herself and Carver. "Our Uncle."

The Captain snorted. "Sorry to hear that. The only Gamlen Amell I know is a weaselly little bastard drunk with a bad gambling habit." After a beat he added, "Son of a bitch owes me money."

So, that was the score with this one. Hawke sighed inwardly, and could feel Aveline's stare blistering her shoulder as she reached for her wallet, but before she could drop her last few coins on a bribe, one of the irritable crowd stepped in and grabbed her arm.

"Oh no you don't, you _bitch,_ we've been trying to bribe this motherfucker for _four days_ and you can't just-"

The wet _crunch_ of Hawke's fist meeting and viciously breaking the man's nose echoed across the suddenly quiet balcony. He stumbled back, blood gushing from his nose, raised his hands to cover it, and _then_ finally managed an agonized scream. His companions crowded around him, shouting and shoving him back away from Hawke, who put herself between them and the Captain. One of them, a stupid-looking blonde who looked like he ate bicycle chains for breakfast, stepped forward, fists raised. Hawke held out a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"You don't want to fight me," she said. He was taller than her, and weighed at least 20 pounds more. But he looked slow, and tired, and like his last hot meal had been a microwaved pop tart. "Look man, neither of us has anything to lose, but you do _not_ want to fight me."

His response was simple, if inelegant. He threw a left hook, so telegraphed he may well have shouted LEFT FIST PUNCH! As he did. Hawke stepped under his swing, and her fist flew again. One, two, three punches popped against his mouth, knocking his head back like it was on a spring hinge. He took a step, then collapsed at her feet, mouth gushing blood much like his companion's nose had done.

For a hopeful second, she thought that might end it. But rage and desperation, as she well knew, were excellent motivators. The rest of the group – six in all, it looked like – lunged forward very nearly as one.

The chaos was brief, but intense. One man reached Hawke in time to crack his sternum against the sharp propulsion of her knee. He fell back, colliding with another man who was in the process of meeting the business side of Aveline's elbow. Carver swung in behind her to take a third man into an armlock, wrestling him to the ground. Behind Hawke, the Captain began to shout for reinforcements. Hawke sidestepped a swing at her head from the man who had met her knee, then gave him a swift introduction to a sharp left jab. Someone's fist hit home against her chin; she staggered, regained her footing, and then lunged, head-first, into the fist's owner. There was a clatter, shouts, and then... the sudden calm of victory. Five of the six men lay on the ground in various sates of distress, while the sixth was still on his feet, swaying slightly, fists still raised like he planned on doing something with them.

"He's out," said Aveline, passing a hand in front of his face as more Guardsmen piled onto the balcony.

Hawke rubbed the top of her head, giving Aveline a little grin, then glanced over at the Captain, who was staring at the scene with an expression of shock that would have been hilarious in any other circumstances.

"Unbelievable," he said.

"So-" Hawke began, but the Guardsman who she had bullied earlier shoved her aside, stepping up to the Captain.

"Sir! Are you all right? This crazy bitch-" he began to gesture at Hawke, but the Captain pushed his arm back down.

"I am _fine,_ no thanks to you. Get a damned medic here and get those men into custody," snapped the Captain, waving his arm at the mess in front of him. Then he pointed to Hawke. "And apologize to the lady, you bloody rude imbecile!"

The Guardsman stared at his Captain, then at Hawke, and then back to the Captain. "I... wha?"

The Captain leveled him with a look so intense Hawke had to cover her mouth to keep herself from laughing. "You'll do as I say if you know what's good for you, Guardsman Wright," he said.

Guardsman Wright snapped to attention, then awkwardly turned to Hawke and bobbed his head once. "S-sorry about that, Ma'am," he said, and then scurried off.

Hawke smiled benevolently at the retreating Guardsman. When she transferred that smile to the Captain, his return grin was far more beneficent than when she had simply been about to bribe him.

"I see you're a lady that knows her business," he said, tapping the side of his nose. "At least better than your uncle knows his. I'll see about rounding up Gamlen. You stick around here for a few hours and we'll see what can be done."

"We are much obliged to you, Captain," said Hawke. A handful of Guardsman and a Medic moved past them then, swarming the unfortunate men who had made themselves her opponents. She stepped around the tableau, hooked an arm each around Aveline and Carver's shoulders, and strolled back towards the stairs, where Leandra waited with a sour frown on her face, and a hand atop Redd's head.

Hawke leaned closer to Aveline as they walked. "That's secret number two," she said.

"Secret... what?"

"What I did before leaving Lothering." Hawke grinned wickedly. "I used to _fight._ "


End file.
